


Empires Gleam

by alacrity



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Merlin, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Friendship, F/M, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Magic Revealed, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alacrity/pseuds/alacrity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Arthur's death, Merlin goes back to the beginning to save them all, whatever the cost.</p><p>(AKA the great, big, wish-fulfilling, post-finale, fuck-it-fix-everything rewrite you always wanted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“ _MERLIN!!”_  

These days, it was not unusual for Merlin to be startled out of a sleep by a voice yelling his name. He merely stretched and flopped over on his back, surprised to find that his bed was cold and featured a great deal more dirty straw than it normally did. He stared up at the stone ceiling and wondered vaguely why someone had stolen his bed curtains.  

“ _MERLIN!”_ came the voice again, odd and echoing.

And then, quite a different voice said, “Merlin!” and Gaius burst through the door of his cell, already mid-rant. “You never cease to amaze me. The _one_ thing someone like you should do is keep your head down and what do you do? _You_ behave like an idiot.”

“I’m… sorry?” Merlin hazarded. He stumbled to his feet, shivering a little in the unexpected chill of the dungeon. Alright then, the dungeon. It would have been too much, he supposed, for the spell to deposit him in his room in the castle, but least he wasn't going to have to make the long, cold journey back from the Isle of the Blessed.

Gaius’ stern look melted into one of pity. “You’re lucky,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ve managed to pull a few strings to get you released.”

“Thank you,” said Merlin, beginning to smile.

“Well,” said Gaius, “there is a price to pay.”

“Oh yes,” said Merlin. “There always is.”

* * *

 

On Merlin’s first day in Camelot – at once, ten years ago and just yesterday – he had offended a spoiled prat of a prince and been unceremoniously deposited in a cell. This morning, he was released, and allowed to wash his face and have breakfast with Gaius, under the amused supervision of a guard. It wasn't much, but gave him enough time to regain a little bit of composure. He was uneasy in this younger body, which was too light and seemed to have about a dozen extra limbs judging by the way they went flailing about the place and knocked into things.

He was escorted through the corridors, stumbling and swearing in a way that did not befit his position. Or at least, which wouldn't have, back in the world where he was the Queen's right hand, chief mage, and unofficial liaison to all the things with too many teeth for anyone else to want to deal with.

The courtyard was a familiar sight, bustling with servants, courtiers, knights, and tradespeople. As he was tugged along towards his ignominious destination in the lower town, Merlin looked up at the tall white spires of the castle, shading his eyes against the morning sun, and spotted Arthur, lounging on the parapet above the square. 

In that moment, Merlin could have wished to stand there for the rest of his life, soaking in the familiar lines of his form; the cloak that did nothing to disguise his broad shoulders, his aquiline nose, his jawline softer and more relaxed than it would be in years to come.

Arthur, who had been struck down in his prime, who had gasped out his last breath just a few feet from the waters that could have saved him, whose memory lingered in every shadowed corner of the castle because his name was spoken every day, long mourned, never forgotten.

Arthur, now – only just twenty years old, infuriating and golden, surveying the great city-fortress of Camelot with a proprietary and protective air.

It was, had Merlin but known it, the same expression that was on his own face.

_Oh, Arthur,_ he thought, helpless under the weight of years and love and memories,  _haven't I broken the covenant of the Old Religion itself to bring you back? Arthur, my friend, my king._

It was too much.

Merlin whistled to catch his attention and offered up a jaunty wave, manacled wrists clattering cheerfully, just to see Arthur's mouth form a surprised, silent laugh.

And so Merlin -- last of the Dragonlords, Emrys of the druids, first counsel to the Queen, warlock, healer, time-traveler -- spent his _second_ first day in Camelot in the stocks, being pelted with rotten vegetables and grinning like a loon.

He was shaking off a particularly foul bit of cabbage when another beloved face came into view. 

“I’m Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen. I’m the Lady Morgana’s maid,” said Gwen, lilting every statement so it sounded like a question. 

“I’m Merlin,” he said, stretching in the stocks to shake her fingertips. “It is truly my honour to meet you, Guinevere.”

She dimpled prettily. “How courtly of you. I shouldn’t expect any less. I saw what you did yesterday, how you stood up for Morris. It was very brave.”

Guinevere Pendragon was – had been, _will be_ – a wonderful queen, but Merlin thought he’d never liked anyone better than Gwen Smith as she stumbled through compliments to a complete stranger, blushed, smiled, and told him earnestly that Arthur was “one of these rough, tough, save-the-world kind of men, but also rather a bully.”

“He won’t be bullying the people of Camelot any longer,” Merlin declared grandly, and Gwen giggled.

“You’ll stop him, will you?”

“Certainly. You and me together.”

“And how will we do that?”

“I have some ideas,” said Merlin, trying to tap his nose in a sneaky manner and half-strangling himself with the restraints. “He's not so bad really. I think he quite liked having someone stand up to him.”

“I hope you're enjoying it as much as he is.” Gwen gestured to the wooden boards that imprisoned him, as if she thought Merlin had forgotten he was being publicly censured at the moment and wanted to break it to him gently.

“Merely the opening salvo in the war,” said Merlin airily. “I was thinking something with frogs or, hmm, there's a type of plant that causes tremendous itching. Perhaps the Lady Morgana will condescend to slip some into his boots. She always loves the opportunity to take Arthur down a notch.” He coughed, and added hastily, “So I've heard. Around the castle. You know.”

Someone flung a moldy tomato with irksome accuracy at Merlin’s forehead, and Gwen ducked hurriedly out of splatter range.

“Really, Merlin,” she called, “I think you'd better use this time to come up with something cleverer than that. Or else, I'd better get used to holding my nose when I talk to you.”

* * *

 

“You are new to Camelot, Merlin, but here it is customary to take lunch on a plate and not on one's person,” said Gaius, setting a bowl of stew in front of him.

Merlin took off his neckerchief and shook out straggly bits of lettuce, half an apple core, and what might, in a better life, have been a small, smelly potato. 

“Thank you, haha, very funny,” he said. He was aiming for sarcastic, but he suspected that he sounded genuinely delighted. It was impossible to be annoyed with Gaius, who was five months dead in his memory, when simply sitting down to a meal with the man caused Merlin to feel a strange, weightless joy.

Gaius' look suggested that he thought Merlin was touched in the head

“Hunith asked me to look after you,” he said, which merely set Merlin grinning again as he remembered that, oh by the gods, somewhere out there, his mother was still alive.

Merlin gulped down a large mouthful of food and figured he might as well make an early start.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe you are the only person she would trust with knowledge of my magic. I wonder if I might ask you some questions?”

“Indeed,” said Gaius, raising an eyebrow.

Merlin had not realized how much he missed that expert look of skepticism until he saw it again. When he spoke, his voice was shakier than he expected. “The things I can do are not normal, exactly, even by the standard of extraordinary things. I... well, I have some ideas about what I could do with them. I believe I can put them to good use.”

“Merlin, _no!_ My boy, Uther banned all magic twenty years ago. You saw the execution yesterday. You would surely be put to death if anyone found out."

“Twenty years ago?” asked Merlin, keeping his tone casual. “When Arthur was born?”

“Yes, people used magic for the wrong ends at that time,” said Gaius tightly. “It threw the natural order into chaos. Uther made it his mission to destroy everything from back then, even the dragons.”

Merlin marveled at how dexterously Gaius avoided the subject of Arthur's birth and the reason for Uther's subsequent rage, and noted how the juicy tidbit about dragons was slipped in at the end to distract an adventurous young man. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Gaius wasn't the most accomplished liar he had ever met.

“I understand,” he said, trying a different tack. “You practiced magic yourself, didn't you? You must have had friends. It must be have been... difficult. Do you agree with Uther? That all magic is evil? That I am?”

Gaius sighed. “It would be treason to believe anything else.”

Merlin did not push.

“I can stop time,” he said instead. “I can call the rain, or send it away. I can move things too heavy for the backs of men. I can heal. Sometimes I can detect dark magic, evil intentions, or enchanted items. I can cause things to grow.”

Gaius' eyes were wide now.

“I don't need words or spells,” Merlin continued. “Well, not always. I do know a few spells. I've read a little bit.” He considered how this lie would fare in the present day, and added, “My mother did not know, of course. I did not want to implicate her. But I can do all these things, with no outward sign or gesture, but for the colour of my eyes. Actually, I've been thinking that it might be possible to disguise those. A glamour maybe? No, wait, later. But what I'm saying is -- all these things, they could help Camelot if done carefully, in secret. If I brought rain during a drought, if I healed a fatal wound slowly and over a period of time—”

“Merlin, Merlin,” Gauis was saying, shaking his head. “The things of which you speak, they are simply not possible. No one can do that.”

Merlin's throat felt dry and hot. He wanted to say hundreds of things. _I can and our enemies can too,_ maybe, or _you mentored me as best you could, you really did, even though it was like a rooster trying to teach an eagle how to fly sometimes,_ or maybe _everything will be different even if I have to raze Albion to the ground to make it so._ He wasn't sure what showed on his face, but something must have to make Gaius' protests stutter and grind to a halt. 

“I will think on what you have told me. Would you please– would you mind–” He seemed to be hesitant to order Merlin about as he used to, with thoughts of such immense power foremost in his mind. “Please take this preparation up to Lady Helen. It is a tonic for her voice.”

“Of course,” said Merlin. He slurped noisily at his stew, trying to bring back some levity to the conversation. It was not exactly pleasant to have Gaius, of all people, regarding at him as if he were a mighty and skittish creature. “Is there more stew? I never knew how exhausting it was to be laughed at all morning!”

“Did you not?” inquired Gaius dryly. “I should think you'd be quite used to it by now. Hop to it. I'm not running a free home for mad young sorcerers.”

Merlin paused in the deserted hallway outside the physician's chambers, clutched the tonic to his chest and murmured a spell over the bottle. One more incantation and he was also holding a bouquet of yellow pansies.

He went down to the castle kitchens, which were full of servants gossiping and resting in the short lull after lunch was served but before dinner preparations were fully underway.

“Hullo, hi,” he said pleasantly. “My name's Merlin. I've just arrived and I'll be helping Gaius with his work. I wanted to say hello! My mother is a baker at home. I come from a little village called Ealdor, you see. I always loved being in the kitchen with her. Camelot is wonderful, of course, but, well, I miss it since I came here.”

Merlin grinned as guilelessly as he could. The innocent country bumpkin act was pretty reliable, but he suspected he was laying it on a bit thick.

There were dozens of familiar faces around – Meg who did pastries, Alastair the boot boy, and the other manservants, George and Morris, and so many others – and he beamed at all of them and listened patiently as people he had known for nearly a decade introduced themselves.

When he came to Fiona, the head cook, he thrust the flowers at her and did not even have to feign the blush that overcame his face. She was a large, sweet-tempered, endlessly competent woman, and she ran the kitchens with kind words and an iron spatula. She took the bouquet with a teasing smile. 

“Erm, my mother said— well, she said,” Merlin stammered, remembering the dozens of times he'd been whacked on the knuckles with that spatula. “That Camelot was built upon its kitchen. No king can govern justly on an unhappy stomach. And I thought – that is, if ever you need an errand run or herbs collected, I'll be going all over town for Gaius anyway—”

“Good gracious,” cried Fiona, charmed. “Aren't you just the sweetest lamb who listens to his mother.”

And Merlin knew that was it. Her approval was the only blessing worth having in the deeply political world of Camelot's serving class.

“Do you know what Merlin here did yesterday?” asked Morris, his voice carrying through the room, and he was soon retelling Merlin's confrontation with Arthur with glee. “And then, then he says, 'Yeah! I'd never have a friend who was such an ass.”

There were giggles from the multitude and Merlin was clapped on the back by Alistair so forcefully that he nearly toppled over.

Morris, pleased to be able to spin the story of his indignity into a tale of heroism, continued with a rather maudlin account of the fight, in which Merlin was supposed to have landed half a dozen blows on the princely personage before being felled by an underhanded punch.

“And of course, Prince Arthur had him thrown in the dungeon, but I heard he felt rather silly about it after and asked Sir Ector to make sure there were blankets enough in the cell. ‘But put in the scratchy ones,’ he said, the great bully.”

“I never knew that,” said Merlin, vastly entertained. “He is rather a bully, isn't he? But not a very mean one. Someone truly cowardly would never have allowed a peasant to walk free after the way I insulted him. He did release me this morning without a stain on my character. A few stains on my tunic though, from those bloody tomatoes.” He leaned forward, confidentially. “Actually, I think he thought it was good fun to have the piss taken out of him for a change. Perhaps people don't do it to the Crown Prince very often.” He drew back, making a show of remembering his place. “Of course, I don't know.”

There were a few thoughtful looks amongst the smiles by the time Merlin excused himself. He'd come down here with no more devious plan than to endear himself to the people he would work with every day. As he bounded up the spiral staircase and across the balcony corridor to Lady Helen's chambers, he thought about how much the people of his Camelot had loved their King Arthur. How fiercely they had stood for him. Here and now, if he'd unwittingly sown a few good seeds on Arthur's behalf, so much the better. 

“And what do you want?” was how the sorceress wearing Lady Helen's body answered the door.

Merlin tried to look as innocent and respectful as possible. “A draught from our physician, my lady. With your permission, I will dilute it with wine to ease the taste.”

“Yes, fine,” said the woman, allowing him to enter the room. Merlin went over to the table, poured a glass of wine from the pitcher there, and mixed the tonic into it, all the while keeping his eyes studiously averted from the mirror.

Lady Helen drank the entire glass in a few quick swallows. Merlin looked on as she wiped her mouth with her hand, and then tottered a little, eyes glassy, and then fell.

_“Onbregdan,_ ” he whispered to catch her body. He floated her over to the bed and watched as the glamour slipped away, revealing the wretched face of Mary Collins, the mother of the sorcerer who had been executed.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he said to the unconscious woman and found that he meant it. He grabbed the occult book from her dressing table, spelled it invisible, and placed it on the tray with the wine pitcher and glass to take with him.  No evidence this time. He’d learned about that kind of carelessness the hard way, starting with the damn glowing poultice under Tom Smith’s pillow that had nearly got Gwen and her father burned at the stake.

Merlin straightened the room and, as he removed the cloth that half covered the mirror, he caught sight of his reflection.

Oh lord, he was so skinny at eighteen and his ears were so enormously large under that bowl-shaped haircut. And had he always had the expression of a startled fawn? Where he normally saw a man, twenty-eight years old, battle-scarred and weary around the eyes, was instead a... a _teenager._

“Magic makes things so weird,” he told his reflection ruefully.

Then, Merlin took the tray, the wine, and the invisible spellbook to Gaius' rooms and set them down with dramatic flair.

“Well,” he said. “I have good news and I have bad news.” And couldn't quite contain his laughter at the look of slowly dawning horror that came over Gaius' face as he explained his plan.

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, Merlin made his way into the lower town to meet his destiny.

“How's your knee-walking coming along?” it called, in rather a snide manner.

Merlin kept walking, head tucked again his chest, trying to regain control of his treacherously pounding heart.

“Aw, don't run away,” Arthur shouted.

Merlin turned. “Hello again.”

“Thank God,” said Arthur, looking relieved to get a reaction. “I worried you were deaf as well as dumb.”

“I'm touched by your concern for my well-being,” said Merlin cheerily. “I assure you, I am in perfect health.”

“Oh, yes? Got your daily intake of vegetables, did you?” smirked Arthur.

“The barrage of kitchen scraps? It was _terrible_ ,” said Merlin with exaggerated woe. “But then, of course you'd let the people of Camelot fight your battles for you.”

“Battle? Oh no, that was just sport. The common folk need a good village idiot.” He grinned at his soldiers, who sniggered dutifully.

“I thought that's why they had _you,_ ” retorted Merlin.

Arthur let out a startled laugh, and stared at Merlin in disbelief. “You can't speak to me like that!” 

“What will you do about it? Send a child for more tomatoes?”

“I could take you apart _with one blow_.”

“Oh?” said Merlin, and he leered just a little, let the moment hang until Arthur caught up with the suggestive implications of his own words.

“Of my sword!” Arthur spluttered, red-faced.

“I'm sure,” said Merlin, who was enjoying himself immensely.

 Sir Balin touched Arthur's shoulder and handed him a mace, sneering, “Come on then. Stop toying with the upstart.”

Merlin remembered the first time he had experienced this fight, and the rage he had felt facing this arrogant noble who picked on people who couldn't fight back. It looked different now. He saw only Arthur, so young and shiny and still so soft, and behind him stood three of the men he was supposed to be leading, expecting him to deliver a swift beating to a peasant who offered him scorn yet again.

And all at once, he knew he could not let it happen like this.

“Well?” said Arthur, giving the mace a lazy swing that made the spikes glint in the sunlight. “Do you accept?”

“For god's sake, put that away,” said Merlin. “You always say-- I mean, people always say that the mace is a brute's weapon. And we're hardly going to fight in the middle of market, where we could damage fruit stalls and things. People's livelihoods depend on those, you know!”

“Oh,” said Arthur, wrong-footed, looking around as if for the first time. He dropped his arm and the mace hung limp at his side. “That's– I wouldn't want– yes. Of course. Not here.” 

“You've got training grounds, haven't you?” said Merlin. “Let's go there and have it out properly.”

“Yes – let’s go to the training grounds. I was about to suggest that very thing.” Arthur turned and headed off towards the Greens, and Merlin followed two paces behind. The knights exchanged puzzled glances and trailed after them.

“May I suggest another thing?” asked Merlin. “I’ll even give you the advantage and we can fight it out with sword and shield.”

“Have you ever picked up a sword in your life?” Arthur scoffed over his shoulder.

“I'm a quick study.”

“You know I'm Captain of the Royal Guards, don't you?” asked Arthur. “I'm a knight of the realm. I fight all the time.” He slowed and let Merlin fall into step beside him. “I've been trained to kill since birth, did you know that?”

“Fascinating,” said Merlin, deliberately deadpan. He couldn’t resist baiting Arthur a bit.

“I'm very good,” Arthur added, sounding put out, like someone who had a sore tooth and could not stop prodding it.

“You keep saying that,” was Merlin’s calm reply.

“But you're going to fight me in even-handed combat? When I'm willing to bet you've never even _seen_ a proper bout.”

“If you'd like to withdraw, you may do so without dishonour,” said Merlin, in as pompous a tone as he could manage.

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “How generous of you, Merlin. I shall make you eat those words. With sauce.” He looked smug, as if he’d just told the wittiest joke of the week. Merlin felt a hopeless surge of affection for young Arthur and his terrible sense of humor.

And now they were smiling at each other, easy and good-natured, like this was just another adventure between them. _It is our first adventure_ _really_ , thought Merlin, sentimentally. _The very first time Arthur beats the stuffing out of me._

While Arthur ducked into the armoury, Merlin pulled a sword and shield from the rack, straining under the weight of both. Though he felt young and invigorated in his teenaged body, he did not have anything like the lean muscles he would develop after years of sword drill with Arthur. He closed his eyes to hide the flash of gold, and by the time Arthur emerged with a hauberk, gorget and vambraces, Merlin's shield was a good deal lighter and easier to manage.

“Sir Owain will assist you,” Arthur said, motioning the youngest of his knights forward.

As he struggled into the mail shirt, Merlin tried very hard not to think about the young man in front of him picking up the Black Knight's gauntlet; being struck down and killed for no worthwhile cause.

“Thank you for your help,” he said quietly. “Sir Owain, was it? I'm Merlin. Good to meet you.”

“And you. Are you really going to do this?” asked Owain.

“Seems like it.”

“You're going to get slaughtered.”

“Yeah, seems like that too.”

Owain hid his grin in his sleeve. “Good luck, I suppose. I'll see you get a decent burial.”

“At your leisure, _Mer_ lin,” shouted Arthur impatiently, from the field. He twirled his sword in a complicated sequence of moves, ostensibly warming up. Merlin had seen that flashy pattern many times before; Arthur liked to use it on his new recruits. _Show-off_.

Servants passing by were stopping to watch, as well as a couple of other knights. Merlin took a deep breath squared up, lifting the shield easily to his shoulder, and waited for Sir Balin to call the start.

Arthur moved in swiftly, uncoiling like a snake as he unleashed the first, flashy swipe of his blade. Merlin met him with the shield only. He had no chance exchanging blows with Arthur in a proper sparring match; the only way to last was to remain firmly on the defense, and he was good at doing that. Or rather, he had been good at doing that. Right now, in this younger body, he felt gawky and uncoordinated. He knew what to do but he lacked his older body’s muscle memory and coordination. In a real fight, his delayed reaction time would probably have cost him his life.

Here, however, he had the considerable advantage of knowing exactly where the next blow was going to fall.

Arthur spun and struck again, tried different angles and all his usual tricks, danced forward and retreated, aimed for the shoulders, the arms, the stomach, but Merlin's shield took every blow implacably. His arm was beginning to ache from the repeated impact, but probably not as badly as Arthur's shoulder was after delivering dozens of huge, hacking strikes.

After the first few showy moves, Arthur fought hard and fast, raining down heavy blows in a clear bid to finish the match quickly. Sweat streamed into his eyes. He had chosen the most exhausting way to attack, expecting the bout to be a sprint, and he was fading quickly now that it had turned out to be a marathon.

“Have you forgotten something?” asked Arthur.

“Nope, don’t think so!” Merlin ducked as a very sharp blade glanced off the top of his shield.

The prince made a low sound of frustration. “Your _sword_ , Merlin.”

"Oh, that! No, I don’t think I’ll be using that.”

Arthur paused just long enough to shoot him a glare, and attacked with another quick barrage. Merlin back-pedaled, skillfully maneuvering the shield into the blade’s way. “Not – sure you – noticed,” he said, pausing every so often to take another blow. “I’m a bit – busy – trying not – to get – sliced in two.”

“Goddammit, fight back, will you?” Arthur yelled, giving Merlin’s shield another spiteful swipe.

“But I'm not a fighter!” Merlin called back. “I don't like hurting people!”

Arthur frowned and finally backed off a step. “What?” he panted, bewildered. “I don't _like_ hurting people.”

“Why were you tormenting Morris then?”

Arthur stared at Merlin, who had the distinct impression that Arthur was trying to remember who Morris was and what exactly the torment had entailed. Then his expression brightened. “Oh, _him_. That was just a bit of harmless fun.”

“You hurt him.”

“I did not,” said Arthur petulantly. He aimed a few half-hearted strikes. “My daggers hit the target every time. Didn't even nick him.”

“But every single person in the castle knows that you don't respect him now,” Merlin pointed out. “He serves only you, and you think him worthless.”

“Good lord,” muttered Arthur. “So I had a bit of a go at his expense. It's hardly worth—”

“When someone has a go at _your_ expense, you throw them in the dungeons.” 

“Merlin, you – you bloody sentimental complaining _girl_ ,” said Arthur, but he did look chagrined. 

 Merlin could tell that was as much chastisement as Arthur was likely to endure with grace.

He moved away from the next strike. “I yield,” he said, letting the sword and shield fall to the ground. At the edge of the field, the three knights gave a ragged cheer and the servants whispered among themselves. Merlin dropped to one knee in front of Arthur and bowed his head, clasping his hands over his sword hilt theatrically. “I submit. Your Highness.”

“What, _really_?” asked Arthur, flummoxed.

“Yeah,” said Merlin, rising. “I cannot defeat you in battle.”

Arthur snorted. “Of course not. We both knew that. Everyone knew that.”

“Right,” said Merlin, nodding. “So you win, then. Congratulations!” He trotted over to the edge of the field.

The spell was broken; the servants went about their duties, and the knights fell to chatting. But Arthur stared after Merlin, a little wildly. For the prince, it was incomprehensible. Bouts did not end like this, cheerful and anti-climactic, especially not when they were supposed to be grudge matches fuelled by smirks and insults. After a while he followed, still not satisfied with his easy victory. “I win, just like that?” he pressed. “You've just _decided_ that?”

Merlin shrugged and began divesting himself of armour. “No point going on if I’m going to lose anyway,” he said, pulling the mail shirt over his head. It got caught around his ears for a moment before he managed to tug it off.

Arthur shook his head in disbelief before flopping down on a nearby bench. He allowed Sir Balin to remove his gorget and then shooed him away. “You're very good, actually,” he said, only a little grudgingly. “It's an unorthodox style of fighting, to be sure, always ducking behind your shield. But it certainly makes for an interesting spar.”

“Thank you?” said Merlin, trying to rub the soreness out of his hands. He would need to build up those callouses again.

“But how did you come to be trained at all?” Arthur blurted out. “You're just a peasant, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” said Merlin, coolly. “Just a peasant.”

“Stop it. I didn't mean it like that. You know it's unusual. Where did you learn all that?”

"I'm naturally graceful?"

Arthur let out an ungentlemanly guffaw. “Even if that wasn't the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, it still wouldn’t explain how you knew to counter Capa Ferro with Bonetti's defense.” 

Merlin paused and weighed his words with care. He intended to lie to Arthur less, this time around, but perhaps a half-truth could be forgiven. And Arthur was being genuinely friendly – or courteous, at least. He deserved a proper answer.

“I had a friend,” he said, at last. “He was an excellent swordsman. Before I came here, I learned with him. We worked together.”

Arthur sat up, clearly fascinated by the idea. “A knight? I’m always looking for good men to join our ranks.”

“No,” said Merlin quickly. “That is— yes, a knight, but he could not serve in Camelot.”

“Not from a noble family then,” Arthur concluded. “A shame. Why did he teach you how to fight? He can't have imagined you'd be good at it. Your arms are too skinny and you handle a sword as if it were a viper.”

Merlin chuckled. “Yeah, he thought I was completely hopeless. But we were good friends and I wanted to help him. And sometimes he didn't give me much of a choice, you know? He was relentless. He wanted to be the best fighter in the land.”

“In all the land, huh?” repeated Arthur mockingly. “He wouldn’t have found a real challenge in your rural backwater. Probably just swanned about, acting the big man.”

“He certainly did _that,”_ agreed Merlin, so solemnly that it earned him a suspicious look.

“Hah. I thought so.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows the best knights are noblemen, born and trained in Camelot.” 

“He was the best,” said Merlin fiercely, unable to stop himself. “The bravest – the most noble – the – the _best_ of men. He fought like—like a dragon!” He felt foolish as soon as he had said it and couldn't help laughing under his breath. Here he was, defending Arthur to himself of all things!

“I suppose that sounds worthy enough,” said Arthur. “Though I don't believe he's as good as you say. Does he still live in your village?”

“No. No, he had to leave—” Merlin improvised.

“Why?”

“I don't know,” said Merlin. He felt cold with the memory of it – that last day, that goodbye. “I’ve thought about it ever since, but I don’t know why. We had no choice. Things aren't always easy.”

“I'm sorry,” said Arthur stiffly, though he was clearly making the attempt to sound sincere. And then he added, quieter, “I've never had someone like that. But I think it must have been hard to lose.”

Merlin ached to reach out and clasp Arthur's forearm. He wanted to say, _oh my god, you unutterable prat, I've missed you every day of my life since you've been gone. I miss you a little bit right now, with you sitting in front of me._

“What will you be here doing here in Camelot?” asked Arthur.

“Oh, I'm – I'm not sure?” said Merlin, caught off guard. “I'm apprenticed to Gaius, but I've already studied healing a bit so I'm not sure if that is a worthwhile course.”

“Well, I have an offer for you.”

_History repeats itself_ , thought Merlin, caught between irritation and relief. _I wanted to do everything differently and I'm still going to end up your manservant._

“You should train with the knights!” said Arthur, clapping Merlin on the back. “You can't be one; obviously, you'd never survive the training. But they practice with a pell, and just think how effective it would be if it could move around a bit!”

“Let me get this straight,” said Merlin. “You want _me_ to be a moving target for weapons training?”

“Yes!” Arthur said, beaming.

“I absolutely, _absolutely,_ will not do that,” Merlin yelped.

Arthur frowned. “It would be a great honour, you know, training the knights of Camelot. You’d only work a few hours each day.” Arthur paused, and then added, “I'll even give you your own helmet!”

“I do _not_ fancy the idea of being beaten black and blue every day by those overgrown muscles on legs you call knights,” Merlin protested.

“Of course you won’t be all black and blue! It’ll be a _good_ helmet.”

“I don’t want a helmet, good or otherwise!” Merlin snapped.

There was a pause. “Fine then,” muttered Arthur sulkily. “I understand perfectly. You can just stay inside with your books and herbs. I suppose you'll sleep happily in your bed at night while the rest of us are off fighting who knows what.”

“ _No!”_

Arthur jumped a little at the force of Merlin's exclamation.

“No,” said Merlin again, sheepishly, “I don't want to be inside with my books and herbs, as you put it. Look, I have this idea.” He was inventing madly now, but he couldn't risk being left behind while Arthur went off to fight various giant things with teeth. Toothy things were _Merlin's_ specialty! “I'm good at healing. At the science of healing, I mean,” he said. “Gaius is better, of course, but I'm young and can learn more.”

Arthur gave him a pointed look, suggesting that he thought Merlin was extremely young and probably even less competent than his youth would excuse, but Merlin gamely pretended not to see it.

“And I can – well, not fight exactly, but I won't die on a battlefield. Say – what if you could have a, sort of, healer on the field?” Merlin smiled at his own brilliance, and hurried to explain his idea as fast as he thought of it. “I could patch up soldiers so they could fight again the next day, or perhaps help those who would die before returning to Gaius' care. When you go on hunts, I can come along and look for rare plants and roots. I can learn things from neighbouring settlements. I really, truly believe we could learn a great deal from this method of study.” And now Merlin's imagination was caught for real. “That’s it!” he said, slamming his fist on the bench. “That's how healing should be approached! Don’t you see? We should carry out systematic and preventive investigations _before_ things happen, so that if – no, _when_ the worst comes, we won’t be scrambling to find patchwork solutions. We should be prepared for every eventuality instead of trying to fix things after the evil – that is to say, the illness – has already run its course!”

Arthur's mouth was hanging open. He closed it so quickly that his teeth clicked together.

Merlin was suddenly conscious that he'd been talking a great deal and that Arthur's men were hovering not ten feet away. He jumped up.

“I have to go,” he stammered. “Gaius will be looking for me.”

He should have known that Arthur, who clung like a limpet once he'd decided to be interested in something, would not be so easy to shake off. One large hand landed on Merlin's shoulder and held him fast.

“I'll go with you,” said Arthur. “I'm going back to the castle anyway. Balin, see to the things, would you? Owain, you're dismissed. Leon, with me.”

That startled Merlin out his confusion. For the first time, he really looked at the third man who had accompanied Arthur. With his hair slicked back and clean-shaven, Leon was nigh unrecognizable. He had been Arthur's second-in-command and had succeeded him as Captain of the Guards under Gwen's rule. He was as loyal as a hound, one of the dearest friends Merlin had, and right now he looked every bit the ideal, stern, taciturn knight.

Merlin wanted to pinch his adorable cheeks.

He manfully refrained, however, settling instead for shaking the man's hand enthusiastically. “Leon! Hello! I'm Merlin! Nice to meet you!”

“Ah – um – likewise, Merlin,” Leon said, looking a bit startled. He tried to extricate his hand from Merlin's vise-like grip without being too obvious about it.

As he walked back to castle, bracketed by two men whom he would die for, kill for, Merlin was struck by a revelation. He knew who to trust within Camelot's walls, who would prove loyal even unto death, he knew their strengths and their follies and their dreams, and all of this knowledge filled him with the great and terrible certainty that he would do anything within his power to keep them safe.

There hadn't been time for grand plans or finesse while incanting the transportation spell. All that he had wanted was a second chance. _Take me back,_ his heart had pleaded while his hands worked the magic. _Take me back to the time when Gaius and Mum and Arthur and Gwen were alive, so that I may heal what I have broken._

Now he remembered all the others, everyone else who he loved and lost. Elyan, Percival and Leon. Gwaine. Lancelot. Will and Freya. Oh gods, his father. He remembered those his friends had lost; Tom Smith and Alice. All the allies who had given their lives too early, the knights who had been felled by magic while Merlin worried about his own skin, all the sorcerers he'd watch burn.

The sheer scope of it overwhelmed him. How could he choose whom to save? How could he possibly hope to protect Sir Pellinore and Isolde and Alvarr and Gilli? Where would it end? Would he next try to journey to the Perilous Lands to save the Fisher King himself?

A shoulder bumped into his.

“Huh, what?” asked Merlin, jolted.

“I said, do you know your way around the castle yet?” Leon repeated. “Would you like me to take you down to the physician's quarters?”

Merlin opened his mouth to decline, then realized that he needed to make some effort to appear new to the citadel. “Yes, that would be kind, thanks.”

Arthur asked Leon to attend him after he was done, nodded at Merlin, and went up the stairs to his chambers.

“Do you like Camelot?” asked Leon politely, as they walked.

Merlin thought about it. “Since I arrived yesterday, I've witnessed an execution, spent a night in the dungeons, been put in the stocks, and fought Camelot's prince. Twice.”

Leon gaped at him.

Merlin laughed. “Actually, I'm having the time of my life.”

* * *

 

Four hours later, there was a frantic pounding on the door to Gauis' rooms.

“Gauis, the king summons you. Come quickly. They're saying Lady Helen of Mora is dead!” exclaimed Alistair the boot boy. 

Gauis picked up his physician's case and gestured to Merlin to follow him. “Well, my boy, let us see what's to be done now,” he said, in a vaguely accusatory way.

In the best guest chambers in the castle, there was a body on the bed, a king striding around and muttering horrible imprecations to himself, a wide-eyed prince, and a cowering servant girl.

“Sorcery!” cried Uther to Gaius. He swished his cloak for threatening emphasis.

Merlin tried to suppress the giggle, he really did. Arthur, who was brandishing a dinner knife as if he'd been called away in the middle of his evening meal and brought along the first weapon to hand, gave him a scathing look.

The king, however, was not one to be interrupted in the middle of a good tirade.

“A sorceress in our very midst!” Swish. “Such an outrage cannot be borne!” Swish. “How has this come to pass, Gaius?” Swooosh.

Merlin had to give Gaius a great deal of credit for his acting. The physician examined the body with care, tested for breath and reflexes, and did something complicated with a potion that turned blue when a lock of hair was dropped into it.

“This woman has died of magical exhaustion,” he said severely. “You will recall, this is the woman who promised to revenge herself upon you at the execution of her son yesterday. Look here, she is wearing Lady Helen's clothing and they fit ill on her body. I believe she took on the lady's form, hoping to get close to you, your majesty, or to Prince Arthur. It is a taxing spell, and I believe she was unable to sustain it for such a length of time. She probably lay down for a rest and died in her sleep.”

“Is that the end of it?” asked Uther. “Who was the last person to see Lady Helen alive?” 

“I believe I saw her last this afternoon, sire,” said Merlin.

“And who are you, boy?”

“I am... called Merlin, sire. I am Gaius' apprentice. I brought Lady Helen a tonic for her voice this afternoon. She looked like herself – I mean, she looked like Lady Helen – but very tired. She said was going to take a nap to refresh herself before dinner.”

“And then?”

“I came up to help her dress,” said the maidservant, meekly. With a start, Merlin realized it was Bronwen, the girl whose dead body had been discovered in the sorceress' chambers after the feast, last time. “But there was no answer when I knocked. I just peeked in to make sure and found the body, sire. So I alerted the steward, who brought the news to you, sire.”

“My god! A close thing,” said Uther. “We will burn the body.”

“No!” said Gaius, quickly, with a glance at Merlin. “No, sire. The woman is quite dead. There is no need to desecrate the corpse. It may even release, er, ill humours. We shall have her buried in an unmarked grave.”

“Very well. See to it. Arthur, come, you will dine with me and we will discuss what can be done to weed out the magic in our midst.”

When they were gone, Gaius sent Bronwen away to her dinner with a kind word, and then looked to Merlin.

“Get on with it, then,” he said, resigned. “I've done what you asked. Time to clean up your mess.”

Merlin thrust out a hand. He didn't say the words out loud, even though speaking a spell often made it easier for him to concentrate, but merely let his eyes glow gold. He could show off for Gaius a little bit.

He strode over to the bed, and picked up the body, which weighed next to nothing now. Then he cast a notice-me-not spell.

Gaius frowned. “Merlin?” he said, uncertainly.

“I'm here,” said Merlin. “It's just a little trick. Makes your eyes want to slide right over me, unless I specifically call your attention.”

“Subtle,” said Gaius and, for a wonder, he did not sound sarcastic. 

* * *

 

In the dark woods outside the city fortifications, Merlin laid the woman gently on the ground. He cast an aging spell over himself, which was not as effective as the potion he used to take, but would hold for half an hour or so.

Then he released the spell that gave the sorceress the appearance of death. She sat up, gasping and choking.

“Mary Collins,” intoned Merlin fearsomely. “You have murdered a woman to steal her appearance. You have attempted to commit treason and regicide. You abuse your powers and sully the name of magic.”

“Who are you?” asked Mary. She got to her feet unsteadily and her hands shook.

“I am Emrys. Camelot is under my protection.”

“You side with a brutal tyrant against your own kind? He murdered my son!”

“Yes,” said Merlin quietly. “He did and he will pay for that. But you will not be the one to kill him.”

“You will?”

Merlin did not know the answer to that. “I could have killed you,” he said instead. “I could have poisoned you. I could have turned you in to the king. But I offer you mercy. You will swear to me that you will never again use to magic to harm another.”

“I will not! I will have my revenge—” Mary began. A whirlwind formed between her hands. Merlin blinked and it went out like a snuffed candle.

“You will swear or I will kill where you stand,” he said.

That was true, at any rate, and they both knew it. He held out his hand and Mary reluctantly put her palm on top of his.

“You will never, by action or inaction, direct or indirect, use your magic to cause harm to Arthur Pendragon or to any under his protection,” he said, trying to keep his voice solemn and awe-inspiring.

“I so swear,” said Mary. A disc of blue light formed between their palms, flared incandescently hot for a few seconds, and then winked out of existence.

The woman dropped her hand in defeat.

“Who are you?” she asked again, sounding afraid.

Merlin considered saying, _I am the most powerful warlock the world has ever seen_ , but some lingering sense of embarrassment stopped him. For all that he had been through and done, he still sometimes felt like a child play-acting as a sorcerer. He'd never wished more for a little bit of Arthur's, or even Uther's, easy aura of command than he did in this moment.

She was already asking another question though: “Why make me swear to Prince Arthur?”

Merlin knew she was testing him to see whether he would give away any weakness, but he allowed her a little leeway.  “I serve Arthur,” he said, and watched her eyes widen in surprise. “He is destined to bring magic back to this land. I will aid-- no, I will _ensure_ that this comes to pass.”

“And who is under his protection? Whom am I forbidden to harm?” she asked suspiciously. 

“I suggest that you do not test the limits of your oath,” snapped Merlin, mostly because this was another thing he did not know. Ye gods, he really was flying blind. “If you break your word, your magic will be stripped out of your very blood. You have been wronged and so you have been given a second chance, but try me again and I will not be merciful. Go now.”

Mary Collins went.

When she was out of sight, Merlin slumped against a tree and pressed his hands to his bearded, wrinkled face. He allowed himself just one heartbeat to feel desperate and lonely and overwhelmed, and then he pulled himself together and went back to the castle.

* * *

 

“ _MERLIN!!”_

This time, when Merlin was roused from an exhausted sleep, he was in his old chambers off Gaius' workroom. Well, he supposed, it was his own bloody fault for forgetting.

He got to his feet and trudged the long path through the servants' quarters, through the dungeons, down the long corridor underneath, and emerged into an enormous rocky cavern.

“Hello?” he called.

There was an answering roar and the swoop of huge leathery wings. Merlin was reminded of Uther, swishing his cloak about like punctuation to his rant. Really, it was a surprise Camelot didn't boast the world's most successful amateur theatrics troupe.   

“YOUNG WARLOCK,” rumbled the great dragon, alighting in front of him.

“Hi,” said Merlin.

“HOW SMALL YOU ARE FOR SUCH A GREAT DESTINY.”

“Oi, I'm six feet tall. We can't all be giant bloody lizards.”

There was a pause while they both considered this.

“I AM A DRAGON,” said the dragon, sounding uncertain. “I AM THE LAST OF MY KIND.”

“No, yeah, I got that,” said Merlin. “Not a literal lizard. It was more an exaggerated statement in my defense, since I felt you were being condescending.” He shook his head before the dragon could parse this and get in a snit about it. “Was there a reason you wanted me down here at two in the morning?”

“YOUR GIFT, MERLIN, WAS GIVEN TO YOU FOR A REASON.”

“Yes, I know. Arthur, Albion, once and future, all that rot.”

“UM,” said the dragon, which was pretty much the best thing to happen to Merlin since he'd come back to the past.

“Hey, while I'm here, can you tell me – what do you eat? Does someone actually feed you? You must weigh, what, eight tonnes, not even counting the wings. So you need five hundred pounds of food a day, like an entire cow? Doesn't anyone wonder what's happening down here?”

“I DID NOT INQUIRE AS TO THE MECHANICS OF MY CAPTIVITY,” said the dragon, stiffly.

“Fair enough. Anyway, would you like me to bring you anything?”

“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.”

“You must be bored down here, just waiting around for someone with a great destiny to show up. I can't free you just yet, but if you like I can bring you some books or – I'm not sure – a game of some sort?”

“YOU WOULD WISH TO FREE ME?” The dragon sounded shocked. 

“Oh yes. In one respect, Arthur and I are not alone. You have a great destiny too, Kilgharrah.”

“YOU KNOW MY TRUE NAME,” said Kilgharrah, unfurling his wings. “HOW CAN THAT BE?”

Merlin smiled, slow and smug. He said, “Magic.”

* * *

 

In the morning, unable to stand the way that Gaius was still looking at him as if he was some new species of butterfly to be captured and pinned to a cork-board for study, Merlin escaped at an early hour.

He went out to the forest, cast a notice-me-not on himself, and started the laborious process of setting down wards around the city. The work was painstaking, but not difficult. Merlin drew a rune on the underside of a stone with his finger. It glowed and sunk into the stone, forming an anchor point. He moved twenty feet away, picked up another stone and repeated the process. As he set this stone down, he felt a taut line of magic snap between the two anchor points creating an invisible tripline in the earth. He kept walking, forming anchors and connecting them to the previous point, intending to create a boundary that eventually ringed the entire city. 

Merlin would feel a frisson of power every time a person with magic crossed this line. They would be unharmed, but marked to his eyes with a nimbus of octarine light. It wasn't much of a precaution, but it was better than anything they'd had the first time around.

After a quarter of a mile, he found himself on the north side of city by the training greens, coincidentally just around that time in the late morning when the knights were training in full force. He dithered for a while, gathered more flowers and some herbs that Gaius was perpetually short on, and then scolded himself for prevaricating.  He couldn't deny that Arthur's presence drew him in. After two years of searing absence, he wanted nothing more than to spend every moment with his best friend, even if this Arthur wasn't exactly like _his_ Arthur.

But then – Merlin remembered laying his Arthur to rest on the waters of Avalon and he shivered. 

On the field, Arthur had equipped Sir Balin with just a shield and had set Sir Owain to attacking him.

“Not like that, for god's sake,” he was saying. “Balin, you need to be faster with that shield, offer some real resistance. You saw how he did it. If you go down on the first blow, no one will ever get any practice.”

When he looked up and caught Merlin's cheeky grin, Arthur looked a little flustered. After a few minutes more, in which he kept glancing over at Merlin on the sidelines, he set the knights to spar one-on-one and came over to stand beside him.

“Don't let this go to your head. It's quite big enough as it is,” he said, gruffly.

“The fact that you're using my techniques to train knights of the realm?” asked Merlin. “Why on earth would that make me tremendously proud?”

Arthur looked a tiny bit more pleased than annoyed by that, so Merlin risked an impertinent question: “How was dinner with your father?”

“A little… deafening,” said Arthur, raising two fingers to his temple as though the mere memory brought on a headache. “I can't believe there was a sorcerer in Camelot. She was welcomed as an honoured guest! It just goes to show that father was right and we need to take preemptive measures before they strike at us.”

“She must have been heartbroken over her son's death to risk her life like that,” said Merlin.

Arthur gave him an odd look. “She killed the real Lady Helen. We got word from the patrols this morning that her body was founded in the woods by their last campsite.”

“Yes. I know. I'm not saying – it's just that she must have believed very strongly, or been very bitter to risk everything the way she did.”

“What would you know about it, Merlin?” It was a rhetorical question, asked so carelessly that Merlin was suddenly furious. 

“I had a lot of time to think about it while I was disposing of her body,” he said sharply, which was a lie, but had the shape of truth. It was all getting a little tangled in Merlin's mind – actions and consequences, all the things he needed to make Arthur _see_ before it was too late.

“I didn't know you had to do that.”

“Someone always has to do it, Arthur. Someone has to sweep up the ashes or cut down the noose.”

Arthur bit his lip and frowned. He was probably annoyed at being caught once again in a conversation which had turned unexpectedly portentous and scolding. He went back to the knights without a backwards glance.

Merlin walked back to the castle, clutching his huge leafy burden, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The kitchens, unofficial nexus of all gossip, were in an uproar. He listened politely to three or four different versions of the story of Lady Helen's death, smiled, nodded, and offered the occasional noncommittal “oh gosh!”

He had lunch with Gwen at one of the big communal tables, and let her pleasant chatter about her work, her father, and her life in the city wash over him, comforting and familiar.

Afterwards, unable to think of a reason to avoid it a moment longer, he accompanied her up the central staircase to the wing where the royal family was quartered. Here it was at last, the thing he'd been resolutely not thinking about while he hugged Gaius, and marveled over Gwen's good temper, and was snarky to the dragon, and tried to coax Arthur out of pratdom.

Or rather, here _she_ was at last.

“There's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Merlin,” said Gwen to Morgana, in the significant tone that meant they’d probably been talking about him behind his back.

“I brought these— for— um, from— down there,” he said, and dumped his bouquet of cornflowers and daisies down on a side table in an unattractive heap. Somewhere along the way, he'd picked up the idea that flowers were the skeleton key to any woman's good graces– probably from Gwaine, though gods knew he didn't need any help, what with the _hair —_ and Merlin needed any advantage he could get in the fight against Morgana.

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” said Morgana, sweeping towards him with delighted eyes. “So _you're_ the one who's been causing such a sensation these last few days.”

“Who, me? No! Me? Not on purpose,” said Merlin hastily. Being on Morgana’s radar this early was definitely not part of the plan. He tried to quell the rising tide of panic, but his magic was welling up in his fingertips almost against his will.

“I heard you were on the scene during that horrible business yesterday.”

“Yes, but—”

“And this morning, you made sure that Bronwen was alright and told her she could talk to you if she needed someone.”

“How did you know— That _just_ happened.”  Did Morgana have spies everywhere? Did she already know about him? How long had she been plotting her nefarious witchy plots?

“Gaius told Uther that he’d never expected that his apprentice would take to the healing arts so swiftly,” continued Morgana, undeterred.

Merlin raised hands that were tingling with power, and said, “Look, it’s not what you think. Gaius is just really nice,” which made Gwen and Morgana exchange looks that clearly meant, _aww, duckling._

“And when I happened to mention your name to Arthur,” said Morgana with terrible glee, “He yelled at me for a couple of minutes and went off in a strop, and then came back and did it again. _Three times._ ”

Gwen giggled. “He kept saying, ‘and another thing!’ He was very loud. ”

“Yes, I think it had been preying on his mind,” agreed Morgana. 

“Oh god,” said Merlin fervently.

“I think you and I are going to be very good friends, Merlin.”

Merlin, who had a spell of protection on his tip of his tongue, nearly choked on it. “Wait, _what?”_

"I'm sure I'll get on with anyone who annoys Arthur so much.”

"I... yes. Okay."

Morgana tilted her head, a smile at the corner of her lips. "Arthur is much too full of himself for his own good - he needs more people like you around to tell him what a fool he is."

"I never meant any offence," Merlin said quickly.

Morgana laughed. "Really, Merlin, you needn't be worried. I'm on your side. It's so refreshing to meet someone who isn't afraid to stand up to Arthur. We shall get on, shan't we?"

“Oh,” said Merlin, at a loss. And then, “Yes, I’d like that. Very much. Er – but not too much, my lady. Just enough to be – um – you know. Proper.” Gwen elbowed Merlin sharply, and he regained his senses. “I would be… honoured,” he extemporized.

Gwen shot Merlin an enormous beaming smile, and as Morgana turned back to her preparations for the feast, she whispered, “I just knew you would get along beautifully!”

Merlin turned back to look at them as he went out.

Morgana Le Fay stood in front of her mirror, holding a velvet dress against her front, looking long and dark and sultry, every inch the princess, and not even remotely like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad villainess poised to strike at the heart of Camelot. Merlin had forgotten how sleek and lovely her hair had been; how green her eyes were when they weren't rimmed with layers of black kohl; how, when she stood beside Gwen in the warm afternoon sunlight, they had always made Merlin think nonsensical things about the sky and the earth, two different worlds but always together.

Gwen cleared her throat meaningfully and Merlin realized he'd been, well, ogling.

Morgana raised an eyebrow at him and Gwen looked embarrassed. Merlin could feel his ears burning.

"I'll just go, shall I?" he said, then ducked out of the room without waiting to hear a reply.

_Well then,_ he thought sardonically, as he rounded a corner, collapsed against the wall, and tried to figure out what on earth had just happened, _another flawlessly executed plan by the mighty wizard Emrys._  


	2. Chapter 2

Summer in Camelot meant bright days and warm winds that carried the salty tang of the sea. It meant a clamorous market in the lower town; stalls overflowing with vine tomatoes, broad-beans, carrots, and parsnips; pens full of chubby piglets and bleating goats; farmers hawking eggs and milk while their strong-armed wives churned butter. It meant merchant caravans arriving from faraway realms laden down with silks, spices, and stories. It meant maidservants in linen dresses gathering in the castle gardens to hang laundry and to flirt with knights who were on their way to the early training session. It meant home.

The energetic mornings made up for the scorching afternoons, when it was impossible to do anything but drink cider and skive off to a shady riverbank somewhere. Hours stretched out impossibly long and languorous, endless days fading into cloudless evenings.

Beyond the castle ramparts, acres of wind-ruffled wheat fields lay in every direction, like waves of gold upon the land.

On those fine, clear days, Merlin found himself falling into an easy routine. He helped Gaius brew tonics and decant them into tiny dosage flasks, pestered him with questions about healing and herb lore, and regaled him with half-true stories about his magical adventures in Ealdor. He bought a battered leather satchel and, while building the boundary wards around the city, filled it with sorrel and wormwood for Gaius, with wild garlic, horseradish, and summer savory for Fiona, tiny bluebells for Gwen, and lilacs for Morgana. Once, he came across a colony of bees and spent an indolent hour reading in the grass while his magic harvested a few pounds of honey. Back in the physician's chambers, he mixed the honey with sprigs of rosemary, heated it through and diluted it with water. He filled several of Gaius' flasks with the resulting concoction and bragged about discovering a wonderful new elixir for good health.

Gaius took a taste of the green-flecked amber liquid and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Merlin, my boy, if you're planning to pass off your healing magic as natural science, you may wish to choose ingredients that every kitchen maid won't be able to identify with a single sip,” Gaius said.

After Merlin had overcome his embarrassment at being so perfectly transparent, he'd conceded the point and sought out an Arabian trader, who, in return for every coin in Merlin's meager purse, sold him a few ounces of cassia and two spoonfuls of a red powder so pungent it made his eyes water. The addition of these exotic spices to the rosemary honey produced something odd enough that even Gaius had to agree that it would probably pass as a wonder drug. Everyone knew that the best medicine tasted the strangest.

Now, when Merlin ran Gaius' deliveries all over town, he paid attention to the stories that accompanied the tonics and gave a little extra help where science could do no more.

When the heat of the day was at its worst, Merlin went down to the armory, where the knights retreated after practice to clean their weapons and gossip like fishwives. He brought them apples that were still crisp-cold from the cellar or else from a gentle freezing spell. He was becoming fast friends with Owain, but the rest of the knights were Uther's men. They adhered to a strict code of aristocratic conduct that left no room for familiarity with a peasant lad. Even Leon was the eldest son of a baron and had been trained in chivalric customs since boyhood; he usually spared Merlin a cordial word, but seemed reluctant to get too familiar.

He would have felt terribly lonely in this Camelot – so different from Arthur's raucous court founded on the principles of comradeship and equality, and even Gwen's, in which Merlin belonged to the tight-knit inner circle – but for the fact that it fit Merlin like well-worn cloak. Not perfect or even comfortable, but his nevertheless.

He met up with Gwen every day, mostly at the common table in the kitchen, but sometimes they sprawled in the garden, and shared a ploughman's lunch of bread and cheese, made fun of vapid courtiers, and took turns drinking from the same jug of water.

Occasionally, Gwen allowed him to come up and spend the afternoon in Morgana's room, and the three of them talked philosophy and politics in a deceptively idle sort of way, each of them eager to hear that their opinions were shared and yet knowing that it was not in their best interests to appear possessed by revolutionary zeal.

Morgana was clever and unwavering in her beliefs, and Gwen was rock-steady and compassionate. It was disconcertingly easy to imagine either of them as a queen, and even more so to imagine them on the council together, high-minded ideals tempered by warm-heartedness.

Merlin endeared himself to Geoffrey of Monmouth by treating the man's chronic wrist pain with his ‘miracle elixir', and was granted the unprecedented favour of being allowed to actually take one book at a time out of the cavernous library. Geoffrey grumbled and threatened bloody murder if the book wasn't returned in impeccable condition, but Merlin thought he was secretly pleased that anyone was taking an interest at all. To begin with, he brought the _Naturalis Historia_ to Morgana. At his next visit, he found her reading the section on human physiology out loud to Gwen, both of them neglecting their sewing shamefully, and had to contend with perceptive questions that left him stunned and blushing all over the place. Merlin wondered how Morgana had not been driven mad with frustration, with all her curiosity and fervour stifled by the constraints of her position – and then remembered that she _had,_ and felt chilled and obscurely guilty the entire day.

He began keeping a record of everything he could remember from his past lifetime, all the adventures and when they'd happened and who'd been involved. It was a sparse record – he often got confused about the dates of things that had happened so many years ago and which were now beginning to seem a little hazy and unreal – but he made sure to enchant the book anyway, so that it would appear to anyone else as an indecipherable spidery mirror-writing. Between this journal and the amount of time he spent reading through Mary Collins' spellbook, he was inadvertently developing a reputation as a studious young man, and sometimes a visitor would look in on him and Gaius, working quietly side by side, and decide not to interrupt them after all.

Merlin spent a lot of time wandering the castle corridors on the barely adequate pretext of running errands for various people, casting protective spells wherever he could – on the suits of armour that lined the walls, the tapestries, the bannisters, and even on that inexplicable sculpture of a French chess piece. Everything would rest dormant until triggered by evil magic or Merlin's own words. He didn't tell Gaius of these precautions, not sure whether the man would read paranoia or malicious intent into the idea of Merlin essentially booby-trapping every inch of the citadel.

On one such outing, Merlin was sitting propped against the wall, eyes closed to disguise the flare of spell-casting and murmuring under his breath, when he was startled by a booming voice.

“Good lord, I'd been wondering where you'd got to and it turns out you've been napping in corners,” said Arthur. “I hope the royal coffers don't pay for this appalling sloth.”

“Nobody pays me anything,” Merlin rejoined, scrambling to his feet. “Apprentices have to work for their room and board. Not that I'd expect you to know anything about that, Your _Highness._ ”

“Princes work for room and board too,” mused Arthur. At Merlin’s skeptical expression, he added indignantly: “It’s not all wearing crowns and going to feasts. I do work. I— I have a very large desk.”

“And is it as empty as your very large head?”

“Merlin, someone with ears like yours really shouldn't be casting aspersions on the size of other people's extremities.”

Merlin instinctively reached up to hide his ears from sight, realized what he was doing, and just barely managed fold his arms instead as if he was planning to do that all along.

“Now then,” said Arthur, smirking hugely. “Much to my own amazement, I find that I actually wish to employ your services.”

“I already told you, Sire,” said Merlin wearily, “I am not going to be your human target, no matter what size helmet you get me. I'm don't care what you say. I'm just not doing it.”

Well, if you don't _want_ to gain experience treating combat wounds at the tournament today, I'm sure I can find someone else...”

“Wait– really?” said Merlin in surprise. Arthur had listened to his ideas! _I knew you were in there somewhere, old friend._ He realized he was grinning like an idiot, and decided to play it off as excitement, which wasn’t far from the truth. “No, of course I'll do it! Thank you.”

The prince shrugged. “Gaius seems to trust you, and it’ll be a good chance to test your skill treating real injuries. Nothing too dire, I hope, but it’s as close as we can get outside of a real fight. And I’ll find out if you can possibly be less useless than you look!” He punched Merlin's shoulder, really quite hard, and then strolled away.

Merlin also hoped that there wouldn't be anything dire, and so before he went down to the arena for the first bout, he stole the dog statue from the courtyard. Well, no one had missed it last time. He managed the spell on the second try, much to his satisfaction, and smiled inanely at the animated Rottweiler until it made a leap for his shins and he had to hastily scramble out of his room. Vicious little monster. Next time he was picking a friendlier statue to bring to life.

He sat with Gwen, and they both cheered until they were hoarse as Arthur defeated his first opponent. Merlin watched with his heart in his throat, though he was enjoying the rush and the delighted energy of the crowd, because this was a tournament in Camelot and if it wasn't snake shields and undead warriors, it would be shape-stealers and boys with magic rings and bloody Morgause. And if it wasn't any of that, it was still Arthur facing down the business end of a sword.

He went down to the tents afterward to see to Arthur's challenger, who had only a few minor bruises, and so had a front row look at Valiant's bout. The snakes wouldn't make an appearance until later in the tournament, but Merlin found it galling to see such an interesting and nuanced bit of sorcery put to such a brutish use. He wondered what had happened to the person who had worked the magic for Valiant, which wasn't a happy thought at all.

“You don’t look like you’re enjoying the tournament,” Gwen said, coming up behind him, and Merlin tried to smooth his face into a less murderous expression. She took the bandages he’d been mangling in anxious hands and began rolling them into smooth cylinders

“I don’t like him,” said Merlin. Gwen gave him a quizzical look, and he added, unconvincingly, “He just looks like an idiot.”

“Sir Valiant is quite handsome. Good with a sword,” said Gwen. “I think Lady Morgana likes him – or at least, she’ll pretend she does to annoy Prince Arthur.”

“Arthur is quite good with a sword, don’t you think?” said Merlin, peering at Gwen so meaningfully that he may as well have been winking and nudging. Whatever Merlin’s own feelings about it were, he would make sure his two dearest friends kindled their storybook romance. No matter what changes he made to history, Merlin was sure that Arthur and Gwen _would_ be happy and have a long life together and probably beget hundreds of fat children and they’d grow old together and die side by side and the trees that grew on their graves would entangle their branches in a sickeningly poetic way.

“Of course, Prince Arthur’s an excellent swordsman,” Gwen said agreeably. “As the reigning champion, everyone expects him to win.”

“And I’m sure you and Lady Morgana think he is every bit as good-looking as Valiant,” Merlin prodded.

 “I suppose. I don’t go for that type myself.”

Merlin blinked at Gwen, confused. Apart from Morgana, he could not imagine a woman who _wouldn’t_ look after Arthur with a certain gleam in her eyes. He saw it in the serving girls’ expressions whenever Arthur went striding confidently about the place, all noble and tall, with piercing blue eyes and broad shoulders. Who wouldn’t—

“Merlin?”

“Sorry, what?” he said. Gwen was staring at him with slight concern.

“Are you all right? You seemed like you were far away.”

Merlin laughed, blushing a little. “Oh yes, just— just wondering what kind of man a pretty girl like you _would_ consider her type.”

Now it was Gwen’s turn to blush, and she ducked her eyes away from his, then gazed back up at Merlin as if he’d said something terribly kind, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

Merlin was not expected to serve at the feast that night. That was an honour reserved for servants with more precedence in the royal household. So while everyone was occupied, he skulked into the armoury and had the carcasses of three magical snakes burning in a white-hot blaze within ten minutes flat.

It had just gone nine o’clock and, with no armour to polish, no crisis to avert, no one to help or advise or even talk to, Merlin contemplated the prospect of spending eight to ten hours with his dreams of Camelot's walls crumbling. Instead, he went down to see the only inhabitant of the castle more isolated than he was.

The guards at the entrance to the dragon’s prison were as susceptible to the runaway dice trick as they had been the last time Merlin had visited. He listened to their confused exclamations fading down the hallway, and hastily scribbled in his book: “Critical thinking lessons for all underlings? Consider skill-testing question during hiring, e.g. should I leave very important post for minor distraction in the distance? Circle Y/N.”

The margins of his book were becoming cluttered with notes like this for Arthur someday: “Dazzling red cloak, grey and brown forest. Discuss.” and “Keys not to be kept on huge ring dangling in plain sight over royal arse.”

Surprisingly, Kilgharrah was waiting on the stone pillar by the entrance to the cave. His wings were furled tightly, defensively, but his tail moved in furious lashes.

“YOUNG WARLOCK,” he said, almost deferential.

“Hello. How come you haven’t called me down here again?” asked Merlin.

“IT APPEARS YOU HAVE NO NEED OF MY GUIDANCE. WILL YOU PERMIT ME TO ASK HOW YOU CAME BY YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF WHAT IS TO COME?”

“Well, some things are not easily explained.”

“ARE YOU A SEER?”

“I'm not— I've never— uh, I'm—” But actually that was a really good explanation. “I _am_ a seer!”

Kilgharrah snorted in disbelief, releasing twin puffs of smoke from his nostrils.

“No, no, really. I'm definitely a sorcerer who has seen the future. Absolutely. That is the complete and literal truth.”

“YOU ARE VERY POWERFUL, THEN, TO HAVE HAD VISIONS OF ALBION UNITED.”

And that was a statement with a sting in the tail. Seers usually saw things connected only to themselves or their intimate circle; it would tell Kilgharrah a great deal about the extent of his power if Merlin could scry the future of an entire nation.

Oh, but two could play at that game.

“Not quite,” said Merlin carefully. “I have seen the future, but I am not the most powerful seer. There is a witch who does not yet know the extent of her powers, who resides in this very castle as Uther's ward, though she is actually his natural daughter.”

The dragon let out a low scratchy rumble that reverberated through the cavern until stones began to shake loose from the ceiling. Merlin realized that it was a laugh, rusty from disuse.

“OH MY, I HAVE NOT HAD NEWS AS GOOD AS THAT FOR MANY YEARS. THE LADY MORGANA IS HIS DAUGHTER; AND A SEER AND A SORCERESS,” said Kilgharrah, in what would have been a gleeful cackle from any less imposing creature.

“She doesn't even know she has magic and she already hates what Uther does to our people.”

The dragon rumbled again, pleased but not surprised, and that was the confirmation Merlin needed. Merlin had always thought that Kilgharrah had some sort of mystical dragon wisdom, but it seemed that the dragon knew only what was common knowledge around the kitchens – that Morgana argued with Uther over the executions – but he did not know any of the real secrets about her parentage or powers. Merlin wondered where he got his limited information, and had the delightful mental image of the dragon hovering under the cavern roof and listening through the walls as the kitchen maids gossiped.

“YOU PLAN TO PLEDGE FEALTY TO THE WITCH MORGANA AGAINST UTHER,” said Kilgharrah, supremely satisfied by the prospect.

“No.”

“NO?”

“She will pledge her fealty to me.”

“AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH IT, YOUNG MERLIN?”

“Hmm, _whatever_ _will I_ _do_ with the prince and princess of Camelot?” Merlin smirked with a great deal more bravado than he felt. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

And Kilgharrah huffed, sly and knowing, like they'd just ignited the revolution there and then.

“Tell me,” said Merlin, sitting down and drawing his knees up to his chest, “what things were like here before magic was outlawed.”

When Kilgharrah spoke, though he did it so grudgingly that every word could have been a tooth being pulled from his living mouth, he unfolded a portrait of a land in which every child dreamed of being called before the druidic council to demonstrate their gift, every minor aristocrat hoped that a sorcerer would choose to settle on their estate, and everyone – man, woman, and child alike – turned their eyes to the horizon at midday to see the dragonriders fly.

Merlin, wide-eyed, drank it in.

He had never thought to ask this before, so certain in the belief that Arthur would one day decriminalize sorcery and that the kingdom they’d build together would herald the golden age of magic. Then Arthur had died at barely twenty-eight and left a shade in Merlin’s life as devastating as a solar eclipse. He had also left a heartbroken queen and no heir. Guinevere was magnificent, as everyone had known she would be. With Leon at her right hand and Merlin at her left, she had led the rebuilding efforts after Camlann and had loved her people with artless devotion.

But the Saxons, undeterred by Morgana’s death, battered the northern defenses relentlessly. In the east, Cendred’s sons sent incursions over the border ridge, driving refugees before them and burning fields as they went. Their enemies saw a limping kingdom led by a peasant queen, and even their allies recognized opportunity when it presented itself. And _what_ an opportunity: Camelot in its lush valley, sheltered on three sides by impenetrable mountain ranges, with direct passage from the Seas of Meredor, and its glimmering castle built atop unfathomable catacombs of wealth. The chance to take a kingdom like that came about once in a hundred years and now, exhausted and in mourning, it would fall like an overripe fruit.

Merlin could not be everywhere. While he drove back forays from the kingdom of Caerleon in the northwest, bandits poured out of the Mountains of Isgard to the south. When Sir Percival led the might of Camelot’s forces against the army of Ascetir, Bayard broke their longstanding peace accord and sent troops from Mercia. In a quiet moment, Leon admitted that he might have done the same in their position.

“The chance to put us out of our misery,” he said to Merlin, as they stood on the battlements and surveyed the flickering campfires of the besieging army as far as the eye could see. “Our people are suffering and we lack the resources to do anything to help them. We have lost so many men and any martial superiority we could have claimed is lost with them. And there’s you – the most powerful warlock in an age. Perhaps they believe, without Pendragon blood to inherit the throne, your allegiance will fall to whoever rules over the people of Camelot.”

Merlin flinched and said hotly: “That isn’t going to work! Of course, I’d protect my people, but I would never serve any sovereign but—”

“But Arthur,” finished Leon. It was a fact, not an accusation, and Merlin deflated like someone had punched a hole in him.

“I love Gwen, you know I do. I would give my last breath for her,” he said helplessly.

“As do I. As would I,” Leon agreed.

Neither of them was there on the grey morning, eight months later, when Queen Guinevere was led to a scaffold by the conquering foe. Leon had already given everything and, at that moment on the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin was pledging to do the same.

* * *

 

On the second day of the tournament, Valiant pinned Sir Ewan down and hissed a command that produced absolutely no response. After a moment of confusion, Ewan brought his sword arm up to shove him off. Valiant, panicking, smashed the edge of his shield into Ewan’s face, once, twice, again and again, and was lifting it for the sixth blow when the end of the match was called.

Merlin raced down to the tents, where two squires had laid Ewan’s unconscious body out on a pallet. His nose streamed blood and there were livid slashes across his cheekbone and one swollen-shut eye. Merlin dropped down to his side and cast a precise healing spell to save the eye. He was daubing the blood away when Arthur burst through the tent flaps.

“How is he? Will he be all right? That was not an honourable way to end a match, that goddamn fucking coward,” he exploded in one long breath.

Merlin wrung blood from the cloth while Arthur paced and ranted.

“You fight to wound; you don’t mutilate. You stop when a man is down. This is a demonstration, not a massacre and certainly not— oh my god, what are you doing?”

With a horrible crunching noise, Merlin pushed Ewan’s nose back into alignment. Arthur went white.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, reaching for a needle and thread with steady hands, “When you fight Valiant, don’t give him enough time to be a coward.”

On the third day, Arthur had his sword at Valiant’s throat in four minutes. That night, the court toasted their champion prince and Emrys, resplendent in his fury, compelled Valiant to swear a binding oath and bade him take word to the Western Isles that Camelot would never be undefended.

* * *

 

They made up a cot for Ewan in a corner of the physician’s chambers. Gaius inspected Merlin’s work with evident approval.

“You have saved his sight and thus his livelihood, which is the main thing. Your stitches are extraordinarily fine and even. Have you had a lot of practice sewing up gaping wounds?”

Merlin wasn’t quite used to the way that Gaius treated him now – slightly reserved, with a tendency to ask leading questions – but how could the man not be suspicious of a powerful sorcerer who’d arrived in Camelot with _ideas_ and ingratiated himself with the royal family in a matter of weeks?

“I’ve never sewed someone up before, but I watched Gwen and Lady Morgana at work and used a little bit of magic to push my fingers in a way that mimicked them,” said Merlin. That was true enough, though the technique was one he had honed for many years.

“Still, you should not use magic so brazenly. I could easily have done this work without committing treason.”

“He was bleeding out and I was there. There’s a little bit of magic in those stitches. He’ll heal faster, it won’t hurt so much, and he will have a scar or two but he won’t be disfigured. And Arthur wanted to see what I could do. I have to be allowed to travel with him if I’m going to protect him. After this, I think he’ll consider it worthwhile to take me.”

“I see,” said Gaius, not entirely convinced. “By the way, I have fed and exercised your dog. Really, Merlin, I do expect that you consult me before introducing wild creatures into our shared living space.”

“ _My_ dog?” said Merlin, baffled. He became aware of a growling sound emanating from the vicinity of his ankles and peered under the workbench and into the terrifying maw of a beast. “Earggh!”

The Rottweiler yawned and slunk out to nudge affectionately at Gaius’ leg.

“Oh god, that thing, I forgot all about it! Just a spell I was working on. Here, I’m going to turn it back into stone,” said Merlin, hand outstretched. Gaius smacked it down.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Gaius scolded. “He is a good-tempered little soul and I won’t have you toying with his existence in this cavalier manner.” The good-tempered little soul bared a mouth full of sharp fangs at Merlin. “What is his name?”

“He doesn’t have one. He was a statue until yesterday.” Merlin wilted under the weight of Gaius’ disapproving eyebrow. “Um, Rocky?”

“We shall call him Hippocrates,” Gaius decided.

“Good boy, Hippo,” said Merlin, and got snapped at for his trouble. “I think it hates me.”

“Don’t be silly, Merlin,” said Gaius. “ _He_ hates you.”

Hippocrates padded over to the hearth rug and flopped down, with what Merlin considered to be indecent smugness for a dog. 

* * *

 

The corpse was a pale blue, as if the man had frozen to death in the snow, which was an odd sight at the height of summer. It was still early, and only a few citizens were wandering throughout the city streets. It had been one of the bakers who’d come to fetch them at dawn, knocking frantically at Gaius’ door and stumbling through frightened explanations.

“How did the man say he found the body, again?” Merlin asked absently, staring down the cobbled road.

“On his way to fetch water from the main pump in the square,” replied Gaius, looking up to see Merlin gazing off into the city. “Do you know something?”

“What? No, just… wanted to refresh my memory.”

The old man sighed and turned back to the body. “Well, I hardly need to tell you that this is the work of some kind of magic.”

“Yes, I think so too. Can you think what kind of spell could have caused this?” Merlin prodded, wondering how best to drop hints about the Afanc in the water without causing any more suspicion.

“No, and we aren’t going to discover it by sitting around here in the mud,” said Gaius. “Hurry, help me get this poor fellow out of here.”

They’d come prepared with a stretcher and they covered his face with a rough blanket to hide his disturbing blue and black-veined features from the townsfolk they met on their way back to the castle.

They arrived back at Gaius’ chambers and laid the body down on his worktable, although not without some difficulty. Hippocrates had taken to sitting erect on any raised platforms he could find – chairs, stools, workbenches, and of course, the table. It was with some trouble that they convinced the dog to vacate his replacement for the beloved plinth on which he had 'lived' for so many years, but after a great deal of snapping and growling, they reclaimed their workspace from its confused guardian.

While Gaius went to clean himself up. Merlin walked over to the body and pulled back the blanket. The man looked like he was well into his middle years, his skin sagging, crows’ feet nestled around the corners of his eyes. His body was fairly lean, but looked strong, probably from years of manual labour. Merlin guessed he had been sallow complexioned in life, the unhealthy colour of an unnourished body, worn down by years of hard work, poor nutrition, and heavy drinking.

The man was a complete wretch, and a stranger to Merlin. Though he couldn’t remember everything from the past, he knew this was not the body he and Gaius had found all those years ago. That man had been barely more than a youth, not the wasted shell of a man lying on the table in front of him.

Merlin hadn’t done anything on purpose to bring about this variation from the previous timeline. He wasn’t just changing the past, the past _itself_ was changing.

Gaius’ voice pulled Merlin out of his dark musings abruptly. “What are your impressions, Merlin?”

“I think he was poisoned,” said Merlin. “If he’d been killed by a spell, there would have been some damage to the body. But his skin and the veins indicate the damage was internal. He must have ingested something, a potion perhaps.”

Gaius nodded, coming to stand next to Merlin. “Yes, I thought as much myself. But the question is: what? Whoever is responsible for this must be very dangerous.”

“What do we do?” asked Merlin.

“Find the source of the magic and stop it,” he said, looking at Merlin intently.

“Are you going to tell the King?”

“Of course,” Gaius said, frowning.

“It’s just…” Merlin began. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want to alarm him yet, do we? So far it’s only the one case. Wouldn’t it be easier to find the source of the illness if the town wasn’t panicking about a magical enemy?”

“Perhaps,” Gaius said, slowly. “Uther does tend to be somewhat alarmist when it comes to magic. For now, this will remain between the two of us.” He narrowed his eyes at Merlin. “But if this illness spreads, we must alert the king. There is something dark at work here, and if the king discovers we have hid it from him, it will be both our heads on the block. Understood?”

Merlin nodded.

It was then that Gaius noticed Merlin’s dirty hands.

“Goodness – look at yourself!” he said, aghast. “What are you doing still standing here? This is not a pig sty, you fool-brained goat. Get out of here and clean yourself up, for goodness sake. I won’t have those filthy hands in my surgery – and clean your boots too while you’re at it!”

Merlin retreated hastily, Gaius’ scolding following him out the door.

* * *

 

Merlin stalked up to the offending pump. How many more people had taken water from here today already? He glanced about him; people made their way through the streets on everyday business, oblivious to the monster lurking in the aqueducts beneath the city.

He washed his hands, then straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. He glowered at the pump. It needed to be destroyed.

Well, perhaps that was taking it a bit too far, but he had to at least put it out of service for the time being. Perhaps if he just broke the handle it would give him enough time to defeat the Afanc and prevent more people from succumbing to its poison.

He grasped the handle, words of power forming on his tongue. He opened his mouth, magic coursing through him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The spell died on Merlin's lips.

Arthur was behind him, arms crossed and smirking.

“I – water,” he stammered. “I was getting some water for Gaius.”

“One handful at a time? When is Gaius expecting this delivery of water – next week?

Merlin glared at him. He had a comeback, he did, any minute now–

Arthur sighed, exasperated. “Do you even know how to use this kind of pump? Or did you not have them in whatever backwater place you crawled out of?”

Merlin stiffened. “Of course I know how to use it,” he said frostily. “And actually, the village I come from is perfectly nice.”

“And where is that then?” asked Arthur, suddenly serious.

Merlin blinked. Arthur was asking far too many questions, and Merlin didn’t think he would just turn around and walk away if Merlin asked nicely. He never did _anything_ if Merlin asked nicely. And right now, he needed to break this damn pump before anyone else got any poisoned water.

Arthur’s irritated voice broke in on Merlin's thoughts: “…asked you a question. Where are you from?”

“Nowhere you know of, I’m sure,” Merlin said, evasively.

“You don’t think I know my own kingdom?” Arthur scoffed, challenging him.

“In a word? No.”

“ _What?_ ”

“When was the last time you visited any of the villages in your kingdom?” Merlin shot back.

"I—”

“What do you know of the life of the common labourer? How many peasants have you ever spoken with? How often do you think they ever see representatives of the king?” Merlin could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He glanced back at the pump. He could see Arthur out of the corner of his eye, gaping at him, fury and shock written all over his face.

Now that Arthur was properly enraged, it would be all too easy for Merlin to play the part of the indignant peasant. And an angry young peasant might just be angry enough to break this handy water pump right here

Merlin lifted the handle of the pump, and brought it down with all the force he could muster. He kept his gaze cast down to hide the flash of his eyes.

The handle snapped right out of its socket, clattering to the ground.

Merlin straightened, breathing heavily. Arthur was looking at him as if he’d gone insane. It was then that he noticed a rather large group of people had gathered around them.

“I…” he floundered, looking for a way out. “I’m sorry, Sire,” he blurted, lowering his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Arthur appeared to be absolutely dumbfounded. “Well neither do I! What the hell was that? You just broke a public pump, you idiot!”

“It was an accident,” Merlin said.

“An accident for which you will pay,” said Arthur, haughty prince of the realm again. He grinned wickedly, and Merlin felt his heart sink.

_Oh shit_ , he thought, as two guards seized him.

“Take him to the stocks,” Arthur ordered them. Then he was gone in a swirl of red cloak.

* * *

 

Merlin had expected he would run into challenges when he returned to the past. He’d expected it would be awkward, frustrating, and even painful to see and speak with people he’d known and loved when none of them remembered him.

He’d expected to have to make difficult decisions and to sacrifice something of his happiness and sanity for the sake of the nation.

But he had not expected to be spending this much time in the stocks.

A tomato hit him square in the face, squishing unpleasantly against his nose and trickling down his chin. The people in this town were entirely too wasteful with produce. Especially the tomatoes. Had they always had so many tomatoes in Camelot?

Another one smashed against his ear, and the crowd jeered. Didn’t they have anything better to do with their fruit?

A half-eaten apple smacked him in the forehead and he flinched. An _apple?_ Now that was just unfair.

Merlin glowered. When he finally gained influence with Arthur, he would see each and every one of these fruit-throwers recruited into the army. Let them have fun throwing things at a charging enemy.

How could he have been so _stupid_? The Afanc was probably doing more damage by the minute. He needed to be down there _now_.

His magic was restless, right at his fingertips, and it would be so easy to escape with a simple spell. But even Merlin couldn’t vanish from the stocks in broad daylight in front of a crowd. People here might turn a purposefully blind eye to magic, but only insofar as it made life easier for them. And besides, Arthur had been strolling through the courtyard intermittently, grinning like an idiot every time Merlin was hit by a particularly disgusting piece of rotting produce. Sometimes he even gave Merlin a cheery wave.

Merlin fumed. What had Arthur been doing in the square anyway? Following Merlin? He was too suspicious. Merlin had always depended on Arthur’s cluelessness before. The past was changing – were the people changing too? And if that was the case, could he still trust the same people as before?

The hours passed, agonizingly slow. Merlin’s body ached intensely, and the smell of spoiled fruit didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. At some point he passed out from sheer exhaustion and then he dreamed of the future – or was it technically his past? – disturbing dreams, filled with row upon row of dead bodies. They filled the courtyard, piling up and up, pale-faced corpses with darkened veins. Merlin walked past familiar faces turned icy blue – Gwen, Gaius, Arthur. Their eyes stared up at him, empty and lifeless.

He awoke with a start, in pain and sweating. _No_ , _no_ , _that never happened_.

He managed to remain awake for the last few hours of the evening, tired as he was. At nightfall, two guards came to release him from his confinement. They laughed and made jokes at his expense, slapping him on the back with much more force than necessary.

_Soldiers_ , he thought sulkily as he stumbled out of the courtyard, forcing his stiff legs into a jog. Like Arthur, they had no idea of what he was capable. _They will though. I'll show them._

He arrived at the entrance to the aqueduct, covered in scraps of tomatoes, panting and cursing. Damn it, but he was so _tired_.

At least it would be quick. He just needed wind and fire – his two strongest elements and both would answer his call as easily as breathing – and this time, Morgana and Arthur weren't around to complicate matters.

Merlin conjured his usual ball of glowing light and sent it bobbing before him into the darkness. He followed it steadily; down the slippery stairs, through interminable tunnels that looped and twisted, and past running streams and underground reservoirs. The sound of rushing water was all around him and muffled his footsteps. The stale air made everything seem hot and close.

Merlin kept one hand on the wall of the tunnel and the other extended in front of him, ready to conjure a fireball at the first sign of the monster. He thought he could hear it snarling, but the sound bounced through the cavernous dark and seemed everywhere and nowhere at once. His steps were slowing. How long had he been down here? Twenty minutes? An hour?

Was the snarling getting closer? He spun around, but now it seemed to be behind him. He spun again, but there was nothing there. He was getting increasingly disoriented. Every path seemed the same and his whole body ached after its brutal day in the stocks.

By the time he heard the faint click of claws against stones, it was already too late.

The Afanc sank its claws into Merlin's back. He would have screamed, but in the next moment it slammed him into the tunnel wall and knocked the breath out of him.

He sagged in its grip, winded and in agony. As he did, the creature's talons swept across his lower back, tearing skin and rending muscle as it went. Merlin did scream now, but it was a choked, desperate thing, a gurgle with practically no sound to it.

Merlin struggled, trying to turn around to attack the creature, but he was held fast and his hands could only scrabble uselessly against the wall. The globe of light, responding to his frantic signals, flew towards the Afanc, crashed against the creature's enormous body, and exploded in blinding sparks. The Afanc did not seem to notice the hit at all.

_Fire and wind,_ Merlin remembered. _Not light, not magic. Oh shit, I knew that. I should have brought a torch. Why didn’t I bring a torch?_

The Afanc reared back, probably to gain leverage for another swipe, and Merlin took advantage of the momentary lack of pressure to twist an arm behind him.

“ _Forbaerne,”_ he hissed, through clenched teeth. Fire sprang from his palm, the heat of it nearly unbearable so close to the stinging cuts on his back, but it did force the Afanc away far enough for Merlin to turn and face it. He raised both hands. “ _Lyft sy þe inbǽlwylm ac forhienan se wiðere._ ”

The elements combined. The flames leaped high and engulfed the Afanc. It let out a pained roar and then—

Then it was over.

Merlin slumped forward, finding some relief from the superheated air by pressing his forehead to the blissfully cold floor. He lay there for a long time, and listened to the distant thunder of water, and wondered how many other lives would have been ended by his death in a single moment of overconfidence down here in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: A sorcerers' duel on the roof of the castle doesn't seem like the smartest idea, but Merlin wouldn't be Merlin if he wasn't making terrible mistakes with the best intentions.


	3. Chapter 3

He's on one knee in front of the throne and he can't meet Queen Guinevere's eyes as he tells her how he has failed to save her husband, but Gwen already knows and she was saying, _Merlin, don't, I know if_ anyone _could have –_ and he wants to her to understand, but the words are stuck in his throat and they aren't good words, because Arthur didn't have any last words for her – _everything you've done, for me, for Camelot, for the kingdom you helped me build –_ now he was kneeling with his head in her lap like a little child and she was stroking his hair, which wasn't right, she was the one that had lost the man she loved, but he couldn't—

—four days before he thinks to ask and then Percival, so quietly, _he held out as long as he could, but what can anyone do against that kind of power? You have to believe that Gwaine tried. She killed him slowly. I wish it had been slower, so I could have got there—_

—just once, he goes to Avalon and stares out across the still lake at Arthur's true resting place, not the tasteful memorial erected in the citadel. _I want to say something I've never said to you before,_ but it wasn't true, because Arthur had said _thank you_ before, and Merlin had said, _it's my destiny_ and _that's not why I do it_ and _I'm happy to be your servant 'til the day I die,_ and now he thinks he meant _I love you—_

—he wears the Pendragon red and rides with only half a dozen men against an army of thousands. It feels like a mockery of the old days, when the men at his side would have been his best friends. These are strangers, but they close ranks around him faithfully while he brings the lightning down, and in the distance, soldiers fall by the hundreds. _What can anyone do,_ he thinks, vicious, and the rain becomes a torrent, becomes a flood, and washes the whole world away, men and horses and swords and armour, until there is nothing but the water.

* * *

 

Merlin woke sputtering, with a cold compress on his forehead dripping icy water down his face.

“You're up!” said someone, off to Merlin's left side. “Gaius! Merlin is awake!”

Gaius' worried face hovered over his, and Gaius' hands wiped his brow with a dry cloth.

“What happened?” Merlin croaked out. He added more urgently, “I need to turn over.”

Gaius helped him flip over onto his stomach, and with the weight off the injury to his back, Merlin sucked in greedy lungfuls of air.

“How did I get here? What happened?” he asked again, muffled because the side of his face was mashed into the pillow. To the man whose sickbed was now in his line of sight, he mumbled, “Hi, Ewan, you're looking well.”

“Wish I could say the same, mate,” said Ewan wryly. “You're pale as a sheet.”

“Thanks for that,” said Merlin, without heat. “See if I try to help you again, if all I'm going to get in return is insults about my _flawless porcelain_ complexion.”

Ewan snickered and Gaius clicked his tongue reproachfully.

“Don't worry, Merlin,” said Gaius. “Based on the expression on Prince Arthur's face when he carried you in here, I'm sure you'll get what's coming to you.”

“Arthur carried me?” asked Merlin, in a small voice that he'd forever deny was a squeak.

“Oh yes. Apparently he thought you were acting strange and followed you into these tunnels under the castle,” said Ewan. “He lost track of you for a while. When he caught up, you were out cold and bleeding, with this huge, burnt-up carcass beside you. So he picked you up and brought you back here, and he's been here a dozen times in the last two days to see if you'd woken up from your 'little nap', but you've just been thrashing about and moaning in your sleep, like a swooning damsel,” he finished helpfully.

“Shut up, shut up. I wish I'd sewn your mouth shut,” Merlin muttered, feeling his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “Did he say anything else... uh, anything that seemed strange to you?”

Gaius glared. “He said that you were a brainless, big-eared oaf, who would probably have died down there if he hadn't come along to rescue you—”

“He didn't rescue me!” protested Merlin, but Gaius continued as if he hadn't heard.

“And since you didn't bother to tell anyone where you were going, your body would have stayed down there, and no one would have the least idea what had happened to you, you inconsiderate dunderhead. That's what he _said_ , but it seemed exactly correct and not the least bit strange to me.”

Merlin took in the dark circles below Gaius' furious eyes, and swallowed hard.

“I'm sorry, Gaius. I didn't mean to worry you,” he said. “I thought I had an idea about what was causing the plague, but I didn't expect it to get out of hand like that.”

“So you _knew_ there was a magical monster in the aqueduct?” came a sharp voice from the open doorway.

Merlin smothered a yelp of surprise. He couldn't see Arthur from his position, face-down on the pallet, but there was no mistaking that plummy accent.

“I asked you a question, _Mer_ lin,” said Arthur, coming around to loom over him.

“Hah, ahaha,” said Merlin in a weak approximation of a laugh. “No, I didn't know there was a magical creature down there. Don't be silly. How could I have known that? But when I was locked up in the stocks _all day_ ,” and here he gave Arthur an accusatory look out of the one eye that wasn't obscured by pillows, “I had lots of time to stare at that blasted water pump. Gaius and I were trying to figure out the source of the poison that killed a tradesman this morning – well, I guess, two days ago now. And I wondered whether something could have gotten into the water.”

Arthur opened his mouth, and Merlin said hurriedly, “ _Not_ a magical thing. Just something. I thought maybe an animal had drowned in the reservoir and was rotting. So I went to take a look. That's all.”

“But instead,” prompted Arthur, “you found... what?”

“I have no idea,” lied Merlin. “It was dark, I got attacked from behind. I waved my torch at whoever it was, and it turned out to be this weird slimy thing that went up in flames like an oil rag.”

“And then you swooned,” said Ewan, whose cheeky little face Merlin was beginning to regret saving.

“And then I succumbed in a manly way to my terrible wounds,” corrected Merlin.

“Swooned,” insisted Arthur, smirking.

“Hey, I probably prevented a horrible plague!” said Merlin. “Has anyone else died while I've been heroically recovering from my injuries?”

“Actually, no. I don't believe anyone has come down with the same illness since that day,” Gaius responded to Arthur's questioning glance.

“Well, I hope you're still feeling heroic,” said Arthur, “because my father thinks that you're the one who put that thing – what did you call it, Gaius? – the 'Afanc' into the reservoir.”

“ _What_? It nearly killed me!”

“He thinks you meddled with powers beyond your understanding and the monster turned on its creator,” intoned Arthur dramatically, like he was quoting from memory. He looked suddenly smug. “Now, do you want to know what _I_ think?”

“What do you think, Sire?” asked Merlin miserably.

“I think you knew there was something wrong with the water, but I don't believe you caused it. You broke that pump on purpose, didn't you? That's what you were going to do. I interrupted, but you picked a fight so you could do it anyway.”

Merlin could not hold back the shock that overcame his face. Since when had Arthur, this or any other Arthur, been able to see through him so well? Did Arthur trust in Merlin’s good judgment now?

Arthur took his expression as confirmation. “Do you have any idea who is really responsible for this?” he asked.

“I don't know...” Merlin hesitated and then decided to return a little bit of that trust. “I ran into someone just as I was entering the tunnels. She said – yes, Arthur, it was a girl. Don't look like that. You don't even know how dangerous women can be – she disappeared, but first she told me to stay out of the way and that I wouldn't be able to stop her.” Merlin took a deep breath and committed to the lie. “She said her name was Nimueh.”

“Nimueh!” cried Gaius, and they all turned to stare at him. He made a visible effort to calm himself down. “Nimueh is a powerful sorceress who was known to us before the Great Purge. She has been banished from Camelot these past twenty years. The king will need to know that she has returned.”

There was an uneasy silence after Gaius had left the room. No doubt Arthur and Ewan were wondering what this Nimueh business was all about, and Merlin was still shaken over how close the Afanc had come to rending him in two. The cuts in his back burned, though they'd been cleaned and dressed, as one of Gaius’ special poultices worked on the open flesh. Gods, he should have been more careful, he should have had more sense.

“You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

Merlin turned his head slightly. Arthur was standing beside the pallet, arms crossed and clearly raring for a fight.

“No, I’m not. _I_ don’t just end up unconscious at the slightest provocation, unlike _some people_ I could mention,” groused Merlin, half into his pillow.

“Because while you’re here and awake,” Arthur steamrolled over him, “I need to have a word with you. Why did you go down to the reservoirs alone?”

Merlin swallowed to moisten his already dry throat. “Look,” he said. “Why would I bloody go looking for something if I knew it was magical and possibly dangerous? That would be bloody stupid and I–”

“Merlin!” Arthur barked. “Will you just shut up for one minute and listen to me? Why did you go down to the reservoirs _without me_?”

“Without— you?” Merlin repeated. He couldn’t help it; he actually gaped. Could it really be? Even though Merlin hadn’t saved Arthur’s life, or become his manservant, or told him about Valiant – could it be that Arthur was already, even now, considering him as an actual friend? An equal, someone to talk to and share adventures with. Merlin had thought it would be harder to gain Arthur’s trust without the ongoing drama of shared experience to bond them, but perhaps in this one wonderful regard luck was finally going his way. Just maybe-

“Why are you smiling?”

Merlin blinked at Arthur, who was scowling. “I, uh, sorry?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re delirious or something, from the blood loss. Either that or you’re a complete bloody fool. But just in case you aren’t, I’m going to spell something out for you.” He prodded Merlin’s arm so hard it was probably going to leave a bruise. “If you ever go off and fight anything without me, I’ll have you thrown off the castle walls. Do you understand?”

Merlin didn’t at first, but then it dawned on him. Of course. Arthur hadn’t been worried about Merlin’s safety. Arthur was _annoyed_ that someone else had gotten to fight a monster for a change.

“I see,” he sighed.

“You don’t have to look so unhappy about it,” Arthur carried on. “You should be grateful to have me along whenever something dangerous is afoot. You may have a talent or two, but I know these magical beasts and they won’t be impressed by clever words. The best way to deal with them is cold hard steel.”

“Really,” said Merlin flatly.

“Really,” Arthur said firmly. “I can fight anything. I’ve been trained to kill since birth.”

“You may have mentioned that before.”

“And another thing! I’m Captain of the Guard and protector of the realm, and fighting magical creatures is _my_ job, not yours. There would be rioting in the streets if it got out that Camelot's security was in the hands of a mere junior physician without a fighting bone in his body. So next time you see anything suspicious – and I think you will, because you have a shifty, watchful look about you – you come to me. I will help you in any way I possibly can. Understand?”

Merlin sighed. That was Arthur in a nutshell: the most unbelievably annoying, pushy, insulting plonker ever to plonk, and yet somehow noble and fearless and lovely.

“Yes, Sire,” he answered dutifully.

Arthur crouched down and stared at Merlin, searching his face for the truth. “Good!” he said, at last, apparently satisfied. “I'll tell you one thing, Merlin. You may be an idiot, but you're a brave idiot.”

* * *

 

Two days later, Merlin was busy thinking of himself as medical genius. He’d done his best to infuse healing magic into the poultices that Gaius applied to his back. It was clear from the twist of Gaius' mouth every time he smeared the foul-smelling lotion onto Merlin's back that the physician did not approve of Merlin's improvements on natural science, but the results were undeniable. The cuts were closing up rapidly. Soon he'd be able to walk again without agony.

And now, here was Sir Ewan, a mere week after his encounter with Valiant, with barely a few pink lines across his cheek and his nose fully healed, though perhaps a little rakishly crooked.

“I’m surprised you’re up and about so soon,” said Ewan, somewhat awkwardly as Merlin was currently picking the stitches out of his face.

“It’s my hardy peasant heritage,” Merlin responded absently.

Merlin's moment of pride was dimmed by Gaius’ disapproving glares and general moodiness. He did his best to ignore his mentor, but Gaius seemed to have found an outlet for his frustration in aggressive cleaning. He banged crockery together, jingled his little jars of herbs, and kept slamming things down. Even Ewan winced as the older man smashed nuts at his workstation with gusto.

“Is he always like this?” he asked Merlin, hissing a little as a stitch was pulled from his skin.

“Only when he’s in a good mood,” Merlin replied. “He likes to express himself with sound.”

“Those don’t sound like happy noises,” said Ewan, glancing worriedly over at Gaius as he began hacking at a bunch of fresh herbs with a butcher’s knife.

“He’s a complicated fellow. There,” he said, sitting back. “All clear.”

Ewan felt his face, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “There’s barely a scar,” he said.

“You'll still be popular with the ladies,” laughed Merlin. “Perhaps more so now; the nose gives you character.”

“If you say so. In any case, the life of a knight errant is a treacherous one. Any lady of my mine will need to be prepared for more than a few scars.” Ewan raised his voice. “Merlin does you proud, Gaius. This is some fine healing work,” he said, tapping his cheek.

Gaius didn’t look proud at all, but he nodded at the knight respectfully. “He does have some talent, I suppose.”

Ewan clapped Merlin in a friendly hug and promised all of sorts of aid and fealty if Merlin should ever visit Caerleon and call upon him.

After he had left, Gaius turned and pointed an accusing finger.

“You, young man, are going to get yourself into trouble if you keep pulling tricks like that.”

“What tricks?” inquired Merlin innocently, even though he had seen this storm brewing all week.

“It has been many years since I’ve seen magic used in Camelot with such an utter disregard for the law,” said Gaius. “I thought you said you were going to be careful and quiet. You said you had no intention of haring off to find trouble like a trigger-happy idiot with his first crossbow. Instead, I find that you have been casting spells, and feeding magic elixirs to my patients, and _consorting_ with sorcerers. Tell me, boy, what is it you really want? If you intend to cause any harm to the king or his family, know now that you may be stronger than me, but I will find _some way—_ ”

“Gaius– _no!_ ” Merlin gasped out, appalled. “The last thing I want— I’m here to protect them. The king, Arthur, Gwen, you, everyone. I just want everyone to be safe.”

“And what I want is for you to be safe, Merlin,” said Gaius fiercely. He seemed unsure himself whether he was angry with Merlin or angry that Merlin had been in harm’s way. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you need to stop. Do you think I relish the idea of writing to tell your mother that you’ve been killed by a creature or that you’re to be burnt at the stake for sorcery?”

“Of course not. But— Gaius, I have to. It’s not a choice for me. When I can see a way for my magic to save someone’s life, I have to use it, no matter what happens. So many people have died and I— I think about it all the time. I dream about it. There have been so many— I just want everyone to live, all right? Everyone, even the sorcerers, there must be a way, I’ve been trying to find a way, I just—”

Gaius’ hands came down on Merlin’s shoulders, and it was only then that he realized how close he was to shaking apart entirely.

“All right. Okay, Merlin, I understand. I believe you,” Gaius said, over and over again, soothing.

Merlin dug his fingers into his thighs and, when his hands were steady again, Gaius said, “I’m sorry, my boy. You’ve done nothing to merit such accusations from me. I had no idea that stories of the purges – all those executions – had such an impact upon you. But I understand. It’s all right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Merlin said, even though he wasn’t sure which thing he was apologizing for.

“Why don’t you go down to the kitchen? I know that Gwen has been terribly worried about you. She came to see you as often as her duties would allow. A quiet lunch will do you both some good,” said Gaius, with perhaps a shade too much of a twinkle in his eye. Oh god, and that was definitely a sly wink. For the first time since he’d returned to the past, Merlin felt as if he had his own fatherly Gaius back, because _that_ was the expression of a man who heartily approved of his prospective daughter-in-law.

“Wait, wait, surely you don’t think– Gwen and I aren’t—” But Gaius was already shooing him out of the room.

* * *

 

“Why, Merlin, you’ve been ill, not living under a rock!” exclaimed Gwen, in surprise.

“I thought everyone in the entire country knew already,” added Morris.

“Well, maybe they do, but I don’t,” said Merlin. “So just tell me please. I’m dying of curiosity.”

“I heard you were dying of something else entirely,” said Fiona, setting down a basket of fresh bread at the head of the table. There were appreciative groans as everyone helped themselves to the small loaves to mop up their stew. “So why don’t you tell us all about where you’ve been the past week, and _then_ we’ll tell you about all the special preparations that are going on around here.”

Merlin hesitated. He’d been waylaid half a dozen times on his way to the kitchens by people who wished to congratulate him on – well, no one was seemed to be quite clear on what exactly – discovering a remedy for an illness, or fighting a man who tried to poison the water, or killing a wild animal of some sort. Clearly King Uther and Gaius had conspired between themselves to keep the magical threat to Camelot a secret, but the castle's rumour mill had nevertheless managed to churn out some theories as to Merlin's sudden illness. He only wished Arthur had bothered to _tell_ him what the official story on it was.

“How do you feel, Merlin? Are you recovered now?” asked Gwen, nudging him. Merlin shot her a grateful look.

“Yes, thank you. I feel much better. Gaius does extraordinary work, you know?”

“Those cordials he’s been passing out lately are wonderful,” said George, dabbing primly at his mouth with a handkerchief. “That one you gave me completely cured the pain in my wrists.”

“Ah, I’m glad,” said Merlin. He saw Fiona open her mouth, probably to return to the subject of Merlin’s mysterious absence, so he added hastily, “You need to stop polishing the armour so vigorously there, George, or it will come back.”

Predictably, Morris let out a guffaw. “Yeah, the _armour_. Been staying up late in the armoury, eh? All those sleepless _knights_ , Georgie-boy?”

“Polishing is important,” George protested, and made a stroking gesture so inadvertently obscene that half the table dissolved into shameless giggles. “We need to make sure that everything is tiptop shape. Lord Bayard will be bringing a retinue with him, and Camelot must present its best.”

“We’re signing a peace treaty with Mercia?” Merlin asked Gwen in an undertone, as Morris and George continued to bicker good-naturedly.

“Yes, that’s the big news. They’ll be here tomorrow and there are so many preparations left to make,” Gwen said, ticking them off on her fingers, “Apart from opening up the guest rooms and finding quarters for the knights and horses, there’ll be a feast to welcome them and a feast when the treaty is signed, and there’s all sorts of entertainment scheduled, and, of course, it always causes a bit of confusion when we have so many new servants below stairs.”

“It’s just one thing after another around here,” murmured Merlin, already thinking ahead to the myriad problems that would result from Nimueh actually being in the castle. Gwen gave him a quizzical look. “I just mean there’s always so much going on here. I’m used to a different pace of a life,” he said, which somehow earned him a smile.

“Don’t worry, Merlin, you’re doing just fine,” she said, patting him on the arm. “Would you like to come up and sit with Morgana and I after lunch? We’ve missed talking with you.”

Merlin grinned. “I’d love to,” he said. “I’ve missed you too.” And if he took the opportunity to give Morgana another vial of his elixir with a little spell for dreamless sleep cast on it, well, that was just another precaution.

* * *

 

The next day, when Merlin bumped into Nimueh in the corridor, he was hard-pressed to keep himself from hysterical laughter. She was still frighteningly lovely – all creamy skin and blood-red lips – but she was also glowing bright green. _I guess my perimeter wards work,_ thought Merlin, even as he said, “So nice to meet you, _Cara_. I’m sure you and I will get to know each other much better.”

Then, of course, he went to Arthur’s room and pounded frantically on the door.

“Yes, what is it?” came Arthur’s irritated voice, which Merlin took as invitation enough to enter.

Arthur was standing in front of his mirror, with his head and arms tangled up in a dark linen shirt. Merlin surveyed the jump and flex of his bare shoulders as he struggled, traced the long, inviting indent of his spine above low-slung trousers, and nearly swallowed his tongue. He was suddenly inescapably conscious that his body was eighteen years old and that it had been a long, long time since he had last seen Arthur shirtless.

“Hnurrgh,” he said. Arthur turned, managing to extricate his head from the melee, and yeah, okay, Merlin was pretty sure that he could have happily gone his entire life without ever having to know what Arthur looked like, tousled and bright-eyed, with his arms pinned over his head.

“Something you wanted, Merlin?” inquired Arthur.

Merlin nodded enthusiastically, and then shook his head, and then nodded again, because he’d come barging in here for a reason, hadn’t he? What was the reason?

“Thank you for being so clear,” Arthur said dryly, and resumed his epic battle against the treacherous garment.

“I— um—” He could have sworn he had mastery over an entire language a moment. Several languages even. Clearly he was going to have to build up his tolerance to Arthur’s blatant exhibitionism all over again. “Um, I ran into— I just saw… Um. I— Oh, for god’s sake, what is _wrong_ with you? I can’t even— just, give it here.” Merlin strode over to Arthur, stripped the shirt away from him, and turned one of the sleeves the right way out in a few efficient motions. “I can’t believe you. Aren’t you supposed to be the prince around here? How would the ‘people of Camelot’ feel if they knew that their 'security' was in the hands of someone who can barely put his trousers on?”

“My trousers are just fine. Hey, what are you— this is assault upon the royal person,” protested Arthur, but, despite all his complaints, he docilely allowed Merlin to manhandle him into the shirt.

Merlin scowled. “Just stand there,” he ordered. “Don’t move.” He fished the belt off the table and strapped it around Arthur’s waist, and then stalked over to the wardrobe. “I don’t know how you manage at all. Look, don’t you have a manservant for this?”

“Good lord, no,” said Arthur, watching with bemusement as Merlin marauded about his room. “I’m putting off taking on a personal servant as long as I can. Can you imagine never having a moment of privacy? Someone there when you wake up every morning, shadowing your every step, always getting underfoot? I’ll have to get one when I come of age in a few months, but it’s going to be a nightmare. Father will probably appoint some sycophantic little idiot who will report my every move back to him.”

“Oh yes,” said Merlin, not without bitterness. “I’m sure it will be a real hardship for you having someone to boss around all the time. It’ll be so unpleasant for you having someone to carry your gear on hunting trips; someone to lay out your bedding and make your fire when you ride out with the knights.”

“It would be a help around the castle, I suppose, but obviously I won’t be taking on him out hunting or on campaign with me.”

Merlin pulled his head out of the recesses of the wardrobe to give Arthur an incredulous look. “What,” he said flatly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin, I wouldn’t want a manservant around all the time. We manage well enough already. The knights help each other out and we spread the chores around.”

“But, uh, surely you must be looking forward to having someone at your beck and call to, say, keep your goblet full at feasts?” asked Merlin, baffled.

“That’s what serving girls are for, idiot – not that one, I want the red coat today – and they’re a damn sight prettier than any manservant could be.”

“So what you’re saying is you wouldn’t make your manservant serve at a feast wearing a funny hat?” Merlin stared down Arthur’s skeptical expression until it melted into one of confusion.

“Why would I do that?” asked Arthur. 

 “I'm sure _I_ don't know,” Merlin exclaimed. He wrenched a jacket out of the bottom of the wardrobe and hung it up with an aggrieved sigh. “And I suppose you won’t make him muck out your stables or polish your armour or anything.”

“Are you completely daft? We employ perfectly competent stablehands here. And I’ll have you know, I take care of my armour quite well. It’s nice,” Arthur said, as if imparting a terrible secret. “It’s… fun, being down there with the other knights, working and being, you know, comradely.” He looked down at himself, surprised to find he was already dressed and tidy, and added, “Are you practiced at waiting upon people, Merlin?”

Amidst his _completely justified_ incredulity about Arthur’s views on manservants, Merlin had barely noticed that he and Arthur moved together as easily as if they’d been doing it for years. Tugging a collar straight here, turning a cuff there – small things that were so familiar and yet so unlooked for. For Merlin, it was the thousandth time, but for Arthur, the first. 

Arthur was looking at him intently and Merlin swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, and said, “You remember I said I had a… friend? I used to help him on with his chainmail and things. Just second nature to do it, I guess.”

“Yes, I recall your mysterious knight,” said Arthur archly. “It seems like we keep running into things you learned from him.”

“We were very good friends,” Merlin repeated. “I’m sure that he learned a lot from me too.”

“That poor man,” said Arthur. “What trials he must have endured.” He gave an exaggerated little shudder. “Now, did you actually come in here for something or are we going to have more of this amusing stunned fish impression?”

Merlin closed the mouth that had dropped open in righteous indignation. “Yes, I did!” he said triumphantly, memory returning along with a fully clothed Arthur. “I just saw Nimueh here, in the lower corridor!”

“ _What?_ Oh my god, your priorities seriously worry me. What was all that nonsense about servants when there’s a _sorceress in my castle_? Never mind, don’t answer that, I don’t even want to know what goes on in your mind.” Arthur was practically out the door by the time Merlin realized and dragged him back.

“Arthur, wait!” he said. “Listen, we need a plan.”

And really, after all these years, Merlin should have known that Arthur would run roughshod over any reasonable suggestions and insist on coming up with his own half-baked scheme.

* * *

 

It took Nimueh only a single wave of the hand to incapacitate the two knights that Arthur had assigned to watch over her throughout the banquet. Merlin and Arthur found them slumped over in one of the deserted upper corridors and stopped to ensure that they were still breathing.

“At least she’s heading for the roof,” said Arthur, when he was satisfied that Sir Balin and Sir Radnor were only unconscious. “We’ve got her now. There’s no escape unless she can fly.” He turned a sudden wide-eyed look on Merlin, who shrugged.

“She might be able to fly,” said Merlin. “It’s all just wind currents, isn’t it?”

Arthur shook his head in exasperation. “Bloody sorcerers. Come on, come on. I need my sword.”

Merlin waited until Arthur had entered his room and turned his back, muttering all the while about the ridiculous diplomatic conventions that prevented him taking weapons to a feast celebrating a peace treaty, then slammed the doors and fused them shut with some unnecessarily showy sparks.

“Oh no!” he called loudly. “Arthur! Are you all right in there?”

“Merlin? What the blazes is going on? Merlin!” The door handle rattled violently and there was a round of explosive swearing from inside the room.

“I think Nimueh just locked you in your room with magic, Arthur,” Merlin yelled through the door. “Oh dear, I see her at the end of the hallway. Goodness me, I’m going after her.”

“You can’t go alone. This is insane. Go get someone to open this door. _Merlin, don’t you dare leave me here_ ,” Arthur thundered.

Merlin grinned and trotted down the hallway, feeling extremely pleased with himself.

He had not relished having to stand at the edge of the banquet hall all night to watch Arthur take exaggerated fake sips from the poisoned goblet. Arthur kept glancing at Merlin as if to say, “See? Still not dead,” and Nimueh, in her guise as Cara the maidservant, had watched Arthur like a hawk, and the two knights had watched her _,_ and Merlin had tried to keep an eye on everyone at once, and Gwen kept asking him why he was glaring like that – and, by the end of it, Merlin had a terrible headache and half-wished he’d just drunk the poison and gotten it over with.

So it was with a great deal of relief and a tiny bit of vindictiveness that he now locked Arthur safely out of the way. Merlin raced up a side staircase, casting spells as he went, so that it was ‘Emrys’ who burst out onto the roof.

Nimueh was sitting on the low stone battlements, silhouetted in green against the dark sky, with her legs primly crossed and tucked under her. She’d lost her turban and her hair drifted in the light breeze of a fine summer night.

“Why, hello,” she said. “You are not the one I expected.”

Merlin looked around him, trying to get the lay of the land before her guard was up.

“I thought I’d draw that sweet, dark-haired, little boy,” Nimueh continued, “The one who burnt my pretty river monster.”

It took Merlin a long second to realize that he was supposed to be the ‘little boy’ in question.

“Hey!” he protested mildly. “And how old are _you,_ young lady?”

Nimueh’s laugh was light and pleasant, but it raised the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck anyway.

“Aren’t you just darling,” she cooed. “But you know this isn’t my true face, just as I know that isn’t yours.” She twitched her fingers, murmured a command, and sent a burst of fire licking across the stone floor towards him.

Merlin smothered the flame with a gesture like he’d thrown down an invisible blanket. “Rude,” he said. “We were having such a cordial discussion.”

“Hmm, I like that one. Not messy,” said Nimueh, tilting her head, considering. She flicked a hand out and this time the fireball hurtled from her fingertips straight at Merlin’s chest.

He caught it and let it disperse harmlessly in the air.

Nimueh unfolded from her perch on the wall and stretched languorously. “So, it seems you are not without power. Do let me see who you really are.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” said Merlin, a little nastily. He knew that Nimueh, who was a contemporary of Uther and Ygraine’s, took on a youthful appearance as much for vanity’s sake as to disguise herself. He’d clearly hit a nerve, because this time there were three balls of fire speeding towards him, each crackling with an eerie blue light.

Merlin sighed. He sidestepped two and batted the last one back towards Nimueh, who waved it out of existence. There was something lazy, even playful, about this whole encounter, and it set Merlin’s teeth on edge.

“Are you quite done?” he snapped, irritated.

Nimueh smiled. “Are you the one who neutralized the poison in Prince Arthur’s cup tonight? Or was that your young apprentice?”

 _Oh,_ Merlin thought, barely resisting the urge to drop his face into his hands, _I could have neutralized the poison? That would have solved so many problems._

“I did,” he lied. “Leave the boy alone. He’s nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that – I scryed his fight with my little pet. The boy is untutored, but he has spirit. I won’t hurt him. In fact, I rather planned to offer him a place of honour at my side.” She smiled again and her teeth seemed very white and sharp even in the meagre light of the moon. “But perhaps I should be allying with you.” She slunk forward, slender and predatory in the darkness, and Merlin took an involuntary step backwards. “Should you like that?” she purred. “Would you like serving me?”

“Stop it,” he said, discomfited and wondering whether Nimueh had already guessed his true identity. “Look, I know who you are. I know that you want to harm Uther and, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he came to a bit of no good. But Arthur is under my protection. Believe me when I say that if your attempt had been successful, I would have killed you already. As it is, I’m offering you a choice: swear an oath to me that you won’t harm Arthur and I’ll spare— stop laughing!”

Nimueh _was_ laughing, but it was a terrible, bitter sound. Overhead, huge storm clouds were appearing out of thin air, and Merlin could hear the distant crash of unnatural thunder. Her element had always been water, Merlin remembered, which is why she’d sent fire at him first. Another test – her weakness against his strength.

“ _Tidr_ _é_ _nas_!” shouted Nimueh, and the sky opened up and poured a frigid driving rain that instantly drenched the long robes of Merlin’s Emrys disguise.

Between the old man’s body, his sodden clothes, and the unhealed injury to his back, Merlin was much slower than Nimueh. She sent torrents at him – waves of water that came from nowhere and crashed into him from every direction – and Merlin lost precious seconds in spluttering surprise before he could disperse them.

She was shouting something at him, barely intelligible over the pounding of rain against flagstones.

“Your loyalty will not be rewarded,” he heard as another inexplicable wave swamped him and was turned back. “How dare you threaten _me,_ ” as she suddenly disappeared behind him. Something about “the last of the Pendragons!” as he tried to find her in the sudden murkiness and lost his footing on the slippery stone. “—offer a partnership,” she said, towering over him as he lay, gasping and wheezing, at her feet.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Merlin muttered, because he’d never been one for monologuing, and called the lightning. “ _Àstr_ _í_ _ce! Ontende lieg!_ ”

His aim was a little off. It sparked down between them and threw them both backwards. Merlin hit the battlements that lined the castle roof, and hung there for a moment, staring down over the edge at the—okay, _not_ at the courtyard sixty feet below, but at the top of Arthur’s blond head.

Oh lord, at Arthur, who had climbed out his window and was scaling the sheer face of the castle with a couple of daggers, two sheets knotted into a rope, and apparently whatever else he’d managed to find lying around his bedroom. Arthur scrambled over to a gargoyle on one of the lower crenellations and clung desperately to its rain-slick surface. He looked up and his eyes met Merlin’s for a brief moment before he had to close them against the downpour.

And Merlin, with an enemy struggling to her feet in front of him, his back aching miserably, with over a decade of battle experience, and a surfeit of magic under his command, found himself utterly at a loss.

He just stared at Arthur, who was sneaking disbelieving glances up at him between trying to find his next handhold to climb towards the roof.

Hadn’t Merlin been in the middle of something?

He didn’t bother with words of power. With a backward wave of his hand, he sent two more bolts of lightning towards Nimueh, who let out a scream of inchoate rage as she dodged them.

“Who are you?” she shrieked as another bolt nearly knocked her down again.

Merlin took his eyes off Arthur for a second in order to take aim as carefully as he could and, since she still glowed faintly green to his eyes, he managed to singe her dress and hair despite the poor visibility.

He knew he was getting carried away. He had killed Nimueh with lightning on the Isle of the Blessed, but he’d been young and one bolt had all but sapped his power. He was younger now, but he could sense that he had impossibly huge reserves of magic just seething to be unleashed. Here was another unexpected gift of the time travel – he already had the capacity for magic that he’d had at twenty-eight; not just the raw potentiality which had always been his, but all the practiced ease that had come from years and years of use.

He _was_ Emrys, in deed as well as in name. He had single-handedly turned the tide of half a dozen wars. Why was he trying so hard to preserve the life of a witch who had tried to kill his mother, his surrogate father, and his king?

Some of this thought must have shown in his face or maybe it was the sudden frisson of energy in the air, because when Merlin raised his hand, Nimueh blanched and quickly cast her own spell.

She disappeared in a whirlwind of smoke.

The rain stopped, leaving Merlin in the sudden silence with one arm uselessly outstretched.

 _Huh. I really need to learn how to do that,_ he mused ruefully, dropping his arm.

After a moment of bewilderment, he shook himself, conjured up a rope, secured it to the roof, and unwound it over the edge for Arthur. As soon as he was sure that a dishevelled princely head was appearing over the wall, he headed back down the stairs.

Merlin murmured the spells to himself as he went – drying, de-aging, a change of clothes, temporary pain relief for his back. He undid the seal on Arthur’s door, sighed over the awful mess Arthur had caused in his temper-tantrum-cum-escape-attempt, and, by way of securing an alibi, poked his head and shoulders out the window.

“ARTHUR,” he yelled.

Twenty feet up, Arthur leaned over the edge of the roof and yelled back, “MERLIN.”

Merlin waved cheerfully and Arthur stared at him. _Oh, right._ Merlin schooled his face into a sort of horrified concern, which he hoped was more appropriate for the occasion. Arthur, glaring now, beckoned Merlin to him with an impatient gesture. 

Merlin groaned and trudged up to the roof again. He had a feeling that the difficult part of his night was only just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Things look a whole lot different from Arthur's point of view.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur strode through the castle corridors purposefully. He didn’t actually have anything do at the moment, but his father had always taught him to walk with his head held high. Arthur also particularly enjoyed the way his cloak billowed out behind him as he walked. It always made him feel extra princely, especially when he turned sharp corners.

He’d been peremptorily excused from his father’s council with the Mercian delegation a few minutes earlier. The king had been going over negotiations for the patrols along the northeastern border when he’d glanced up and seemed surprised to see Arthur at the table; actually surprised, as if it was odd for the heir to the throne to be present for official business.

“Arthur!” he’d said, “What on earth are you doing cooping yourself up with us old men?”

“Father?” Arthur had asked, not sure whether he was being scolded or teased.

“At your age, you should be out having a bit of fun. Go on. Leave the dry business of state to the men.” And then Uther had waved a dismissive hand in Arthur’s general direction and turned back to his work.

Arthur, cheeks burning, had walked out of the room stiffly – but with purpose – and had been walking ever since. It was what he often did when he was feeling frustrated or angry. There was very little a good stride through the castle couldn’t help with.

And so Arthur continued to stride, the very picture of regal authority. No one should think to look at him that he'd just been shooed out of his father’s assembly like a little boy who’d been found hiding beneath the table.

As he passed Morgana’s rooms, he was surprised by the raucous peals of laughter from behind the slightly ajar door. He paused, wondering if it was against the chivalric code to eavesdrop and then, when the laughter dissolved into excited voices, decided to do it anyway.

“Then the advisor said to his lord, ‘We just want to make sure: you do realize that your wife is a troll?’ But the lord was under the creature’s enchantment and merely thought that his advisor was being insulting. ‘And there’s the smell,” said the advisor, who was a good and persistent man. ‘What smell?’ asked the lord, even though the creature was rolling in filth. ‘And there’s the fangs,’ said the advisor. ‘Well, I wouldn’t really say they’re fangs,’ said another member of the court. ‘More like tusks.’”

There was another round of giggles.

“And the lord proclaimed, ‘That’s enough! The next person who insults Queen Catri— ’,” and here Merlin paused and coughed, for of course it _would_ be Merlin telling borderline seditious stories to two suggestible young women. “Oh, um, excuse me. The lord said that the next person who insulted Lady Kitty would be thrown in the dungeons.”

“A minor lord wouldn’t have dungeons,” said a voice that Arthur recognized as Morgana’s maid, Guinevere.

Morgana chimed in with, “Nor would he have anything that could be called a ‘court’.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Merlin asked. He sounded like he was smiling, but then Merlin always seemed so happy that Arthur sometimes worried that he’d been concussed once too often by that knight he’d befriended as a boy. “I didn’t know anything about the aristocracy when I made up this story. All right, as you like, let’s say that the lord promised that anyone who insulted his future wife would be terribly punished.”

Arthur listened as the Merlin continued with the tale of the troll who seduced a lord, and how his arrogant eldest son and very clever servant boy had to work together to rescue him. 

“Then the servant boy administered the magic potion to the lordling,” Merlin said, and now Arthur had to intervene.

“Merlin, you utter idiot,” he called loudly, and was thoroughly delighted when Merlin let out a startled yip and all but toppled off his chair. “Are you telling stories about magic in the middle of my castle?”

“No!” said Gwen and Morgana, at the same time as Merlin said, “Maybe?”

“You do know that magic is outlawed in Camelot and that speaking well of it, even in a story, even in private, could be disastrous if the wrong person overhears you?”

“The wrong person did,” said Morgana snidely. Arthur frowned at her. She was looking remarkably rosy and well-rested, not he had any intention of telling her so. Whatever new tonic Gaius had been giving her for those nightmares was clearly working wonders.

“It’s just a story, Arthur,” Merlin said, reclaiming his seat. He held spools of thread, which had gotten tangled during his fall. Arthur watched as Gwen fussed over them, rearranging Merlin’s big hands as if she was quite used to touching and moving them. Somehow, Arthur didn’t like the idea that this was something that the three of them did often – sitting together, laughing, helping each other, telling little tales – although he was instantly ashamed of the thought. Who was he to police Morgana’s friendships? And certainly he didn’t care about anything that Merlin or Gwen did.

Arthur sat down casually, sprawling out to lean back against the foot of Morgana’s bed. “This is an incredibly foolhardy thing to be doing and I'm appalled at all of you,” he said sternly. “But I suppose I can agree not to tell anyone about your treasonous little story circle on one condition—”

Merlin looked so crestfallen that it made Arthur wondered if his severe royal tone had been too convincing, and he felt rather chuffed and hopeful about it. He’d been practicing it in the evenings.

“—you must finish the story. What happens after the lordling takes the potion?”

As Merlin launched back into the tale, he shot Arthur such a painfully earnest grin that Arthur had to look away. It was embarrassing the way Merlin didn’t seem able to keep a single thought or emotion from being writ large on his face. He always looked so pleased when Arthur did something right that Arthur found himself, disconcertingly, wanting to do things that Merlin admired all the time.

It took almost an hour to finish the story, because they were forced to keep stopping so that Arthur could educate Merlin about life on a nobleman’s estate, which was a thankless task and just resulted in Morgana shushing him all the time and Gwen laughing behind her hands. But, in the end, Arthur agreed it was rather a good little yarn, if a bit domestic.

“Next time, they should get out of the manor, go on a quest or something,” he told Merlin helpfully.

“Yes, I can probably think up a quest or two for our heroes,” said Merlin, wry and amused. “How about tomorrow I’ll tell you the one about the prat and the unicorn?”

“A unicorn isn’t much of a monster,” said Arthur. He didn’t actually care, of course, but maybe he’d been hoping for something with a bit more swashbuckling.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You're thinking to yourself, how much trouble could someone possibly get into with a unicorn, right? But don’t worry, I promise the prat finds a way.”

“All right. We’ll do this again tomorrow after lunch,” said Morgana, exchanging a knowing look with Gwen that they obviously thought Arthur didn’t notice. But he was an impressive hunter with finely honed powers of observation; he didn’t miss things right under his nose.

After they left the girls, Arthur corralled a protesting Merlin, who would probably just get into trouble if left on his own for two minutes together, and took him down to the stables.

“I don’t want to go hunting. Isn’t this what squires are for? I don’t like it. What kind of sport is it when one side has dogs and spears and crossbows and the other nothing?” whined Merlin. Which was all patently ridiculous, although Arthur did spend a moment imagining a stag with a cape and its own pet hunting dog, and then he needed to thump Merlin to cover up his smile.

“Do shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur.

Merlin subsided, but was talking again by the time they saddled the horses. He never really did anything that Arthur told him to do.

“Did you tell your father about the—” He peered around the stables and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “About the _thing_ last night?”

Arthur shoved him away and swung up onto his horse. “Take care, Merlin,” he said. "If you drop something of mine in the mud, I’ll make sure you follow it.”

Merlin, still grumbling, mounted up with surprising fluidity for someone who certainly couldn’t afford to keep a horse. As he urged his palfrey out the city gates, Arthur contemplated asking about it, but he rather thought Merlin would get unreasonably offended again and look as if Arthur was a perfect imbecile for not suspecting that all peasant infants were shoved onto warhorses before their first birthdays. Arthur did not enjoy being on the receiving end of that particular expression, no matter how undeserved it was.

The woods were cool and dewy with last night’s rain, and the trails were crisscrossed with tracks. It would have been a good day for hunting if that had really been his intention. Instead, Arthur directed them down a wide path that led to the open fields beyond the forest, and drew his horse up beside Merlin’s.

“I think that the storm itself was magical in nature,” said Arthur.

Merlin turned accusing eyes on him. “Oh, we’re _talking_ about it now, are we?”

“We’re talking about it where the stablehand who was pretending to nap in the next stall won’t hear and carry tales all over the castle,” Arthur said. “And to answer your question, I didn’t tell my father. The king was extremely busy with the ongoing treaty negotiations this morning.”

“Okay,” said Merlin and, mercifully, it didn’t seem to occur to him to ask mocking questions about why Arthur was free to gallivant in the forest if matters of state were so urgent. “So we didn’t tell him last night before the banquet that Nimueh was in the castle, because we didn’t want him to think Bayard had brought a sorceress into Camelot on purpose. And you didn’t tell him this morning, because he was busy.”

“And because we have no proof she was here at all, other than some scorch marks on the roof. _Someone_ let her escape,” said Arthur.

“What could I possibly have done to stop her?” said Merlin plaintively.

“Not you, idiot. The other sorcerer.”

“Oh right, the one you supposedly saw for a second when you were practically blinded by the rain and it was dark out. The one who conveniently appeared to save Camelot and disappeared right after the battle.” Merlin grinned. “Are you sure you want to talk about _that_ sorcerer, Arthur?”

Arthur glared, but the effect was spoiled by the fact that Merlin was watching the trail ahead and not his face, so he gave it up in favour of trying to match Merlin’s light-hearted tone.

“I didn’t invent him, if that’s what you’re implying,” he said. “I could hardly have imagined someone so frightfully ugly.”

Surprisingly, Merlin’s face soured immediately. Arthur couldn’t understand what he’d said to cause that. Unlike Merlin, who was on such cozy terms with everyone in the castle that he didn’t seem capable of walking ten feet without getting stopped and given a scone, Arthur had never felt quite free to joke with or tease anyone except Morgana. It occurred to him now that he might not know how to do it.

“Anyway,” he pressed on. “I didn’t imagine the rope. I was mere seconds from losing my grip and falling to my death, when he lowered that rope down to me.”

Merlin hummed noncommittally, much to Arthur’s irritation. How could Merlin’s prejudice against magic run so deep that he refused to concede the simple fact that the sorcerer had saved Arthur’s life? Merlin had _seen_ the rope last night when he’d finally made it up to the roof.

“If you don’t believe that there was a battle between two sorcerers on the roof of the castle, then my father certainly won’t be convinced of it.”

“Especially since he slept right through it,” said Merlin slyly.

“Especially without proof,” Arthur corrected, scowling all the harder because he wanted to agree. Then he sighed. “Perhaps the responsible thing is to tell him anyway. Nimueh is a known quantity, but who really knows what this other man is capable of?”

“Hey, what’s that?” cried Merlin, who evidently had the attention span of a hummingbird. When Arthur looked where he was pointing, Merlin cackled and took off in the opposite direction. “Race you to the riverbank,” he called over his shoulder, spurring his horse faster.

“You dirty cheat,” Arthur hollered, and urged the palfrey into a gallop.

Even Arthur could see an obvious change of subject when it ran away from him, but it felt good to careen through the woods like this, for the sheer joy of the ride, heedless of scaring the prey. He caught up to Merlin’s courser easily, and they kept pace for a while, whooping and shouting at each other.

Of course, Arthur won the race.

Merlin, laughing and breathless, said, “Oh my god, remember that time we were chasing Elyan down to the keep and you—” and then stopped.

“What?” asked Arthur.

“Sorry,” said Merlin. “I was thinking of someone else.”

* * *

 

In the busy weeks that followed, Arthur kept expecting someone to _say_ something about the enormous magical showdown in the heart of the city. He expected it as he questioned the two knights he’d set to watch Nimueh, but they seemed to think they’d fought each other for the affections of a pretty maidservant.

“I would face far fiercer opponents for my lady’s sake,” said Sir Radnor.

“Aye, and you will have to if you keep calling her _your_ lady,” said Sir Balin, looming over him threateningly.

Radnor gave Balin a shove and soon two of Camelot’s oldest and most seasoned knights, trained by Uther himself in his youth, were scuffling in the mud.

“But you were both knocked out from behind,” said Arthur, amazed, but he couldn’t get anything more coherent out of either of them.

Arthur continued to expect gossip about the magical lightning or the freak ten-minute storm when he organized patrols and did sword drills; when he lingered in the armoury after training; when he went down to The Rising Sun for a pint. He certainly expected it when he delegated a company of knights to help thatch roofs and repair broken shutters in the lower town, but though he went with them and stood around for a full day doing his best to look encouraging and approachable, not a single townsperson came to tell him how terrified they were.

There was no further hint of magical activity. Arthur whiled away the worst heat of the afternoons ensconced in Morgana's chambers, hearing Merlin's seemingly endless store of fairytales, or listening to Gwen read aloud, or just talking idly.

Meanwhile, Uther's negotiations with Bayard proceeded without a hitch – for which Arthur felt he could take personal, if secret, credit – and the treaty was signed. The Mercians left after one final banquet, and throughout all of it, the king was in such fine spirits that Arthur could not bring himself to sully that rare good mood by telling Uther what had happened.

He did go so far as to hint at it at the lunch table, but Morgana raised an eyebrow and said, “Arthur, this endless small talk about the weather is getting tedious. If you like, I can lend you a book so that you might improve your conversation.”

“Why would I want to talk to you any more than I already have to?” Arthur responded mulishly. He was beginning to worry that he’d dreamed up the whole thing.

“Because it brings no end of shame to Camelot if its prince doesn’t have a single clever thing to say.”

“Go on then. Tell me what kind of conversation befits a royal table. Shall we talk about dresses and hairstyles and the intrigues of the courtiers?”

She smiled sweetly and said, “Actually, I’ve often thought about how the structure of the court would be much improved if we mimicked the society of bees,” and proceeded to give him a detailed account of the sordid goings-on of the innocent honeybee.

“Morgana! Who on earth told you all of that?” hissed Arthur, looking around furtively, but the king was thankfully occupied by one of his councilors.

And so Arthur was no closer to finding another witness to the strange events, but he did find out that Merlin had been giving Morgana perfectly scandalous reading material. Though really, she was the one talking about _royal jelly_ at the high table, so she didn’t have to go on like that about his precious blushing face. Arthur patiently endured three quarters of an hour of teasing, and then hunted out Merlin and chivvied him to the training grounds for an instructive afternoon of being beaten with a quarterstaff.

For all that Merlin protested at great length and volume, he strapped Arthur into his armour with remarkable efficiency, got himself kitted out, and was already standing in the middle of the field by the time Arthur had finished his lecture on the unthinkable perils of _talking_ _to people_ (Morgana) and giving them _books_ (ammunition) _._

“I really only have those kinds of talks with Morgana and Gwen,” said Merlin, evading a well-aimed blow to the shoulder like a goddamn cat. “And Gaius, of course. He always says that science and reason are the only tools we have to deal with magic. If something’s going on, we’ll need allies.”

Arthur could see the flaw in this right away. “Are you daft? Every man here is an ally in the war against magic. I command a regiment of knights, for god’s sake. What’s the use of two girls and an old man?”

Merlin’s face took on that pinched look it got sometimes; the one that suggested that Arthur had failed a test he didn’t even know he was taking. “You know you wouldn’t like the three of them to hear you say that,” he said. “Don’t be such a clotpole.”

“Clotpole!” cried Arthur incredulously, and swept Merlin’s feet out from under him. He really was an absurd creature – all sprawling limbs, and big ears, and limpid blue eyes as he lay there blinking up at the sky – and Arthur would have told him so, but Sir Owain and Sir Leon stopped their drills and rushed over to give Merlin a hand.

“Sire, was that necessary?” said Leon, in the chiding tone that he hadn’t used since Arthur was a lad of thirteen squiring for him. “Merlin is recovering from a grave injury. Are you all right, Merlin? Does your back hurt?”

“I’ll walk you back to the castle if you’re in pain,” Owain volunteered.

“Here, get up slowly, there’s a good man.” Leon pulled Merlin to his feet and actually _dusted off his mail shirt_ with lots of solicitous murmurs.

“He’s fine! That was weeks ago!” Arthur said, unable to take his horrified eyes away from the spectacle of his knights fawning over this— this— _Merlin_ like he was a lifelong friend injured in battle.

“I would be glad to spar with you if you need a partner,” said Leon reproachfully. “Merlin is not a warrior. He’s a physician. He makes this wonderful elixir; completely cured my mother’s ague.”

“It’s really all Gaius’ work. I’m just his messenger,” said Merlin, who was smiling and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, and was clearly none the worse for wear even though he was utterly neglecting to come to Arthur’s defense by saying so.

“My sister – she’s a great deal better, by the way, thank you – says she can always tell which is which because Gaius’ medicine tastes like toad water and yours are good enough to spread on toast,” said Owain.

Merlin raised a hand to the back of his neck. “Yes, I do sweeten it a bit, but really it’s full of the same things Gaius uses. You know, herbs and, um, leeches?”

Owain peered into Merlin’s face and said, “Are you sure you’re all right? You look flushed. You mustn’t overexert yourself.”

Arthur threw up his hands and stomped off in disgust.

“It’s really getting to be a fine state of affairs when a prince can’t even teach a servant a bit of humility without everyone turning into clucking hens about it,” he complained to Morgana over dinner.

“Fancy _you_ teaching anyone about humility,” said Morgana crushingly.

“He wasn’t even a little bit hurt,” Arthur continued, at breakfast the next morning.

“The way they go on, you’d think he was some sort of genius, instead of an apprentice with stupid hair,” he greeted her when she came from a brisk ride.

“Anyway, it was for his own good. He won’t be able to keep up if I don’t train him. It’s not like I _enjoy_ sparring with him,” was delivered in an undertone as Uther spoke to the court about grain subsidies.

“And another thing— when does he even have time to talk to Leon and Owain? Do they hang out when I’m gone on patrol? Maybe I should take Merlin on patrol with me,” Arthur said at lunch, three days later.

Morgana heaved the heavy sigh of the long-suffering. “Are you jealous because your knights like Merlin better than you or because Merlin likes _them_ better than you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said and took a moody bite of pheasant. Everyone in this godforsaken castle was against him.

“Although,” began Morgana, and he perked up hopefully. “He does have a certain expression of doe-eyed innocence.”

“It’s the eyelashes. No man should have eyelashes like that,” muttered Arthur, who had been giving it some thought.

“Merlin is sweet, but sometimes I wonder if it’s a bit of an act. He’s only been here two months and it is not just that everyone likes him, but that he seems to have an uncanny knowledge of the castle. Gwen says he knows everyone’s job and all about their preferences and families and illnesses. And he uses that knowledge— oh , not for anything terrible, but he knows how to get what he wants from people. He’s smarter than he lets on—”

“He’s made it clear enough that he thinks he’s clever.”

“And I believe he’s even cleverer than that,” said Morgana firmly, and ticked the points off on her fingers. “He is exceedingly well read. He knows how to fight. That thing with the Afanc; don’t you think there’s anything strange about the story he told?”

“Of course it’s strange! Everything about Merlin is strange. How many people could figure out the source of a plague from a single patient?”

“And even fewer would decide to take personal responsibility for fixing it. What has Uther decided to tell people about that?”

“That Merlin stopped a man trying to poison a well and was beaten up in the process,” said Arthur.

“Why did you convince him to say that?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. The lie did not sit well with him, but it was better than the outcome he’d been expecting where his father accused Merlin of being in league with Nimueh and put him to death.

Morgana tilted her head and looked intently at Arthur. “But nothing else strikes you about Merlin’s story?”

“What you do mean?”

She shrugged. “Never mind.”

“Morgana, you must tell me if you have suspicions that something is wrong.”

“No, no, never mind, it’s probably nothing. I mean, he’s so nice and he’s obviously trying very hard.”

“Merlin isn’t _nice_ ,” Arthur scoffed. “He’s an ass. You should hear some of the things he says to me. I could have him hanged.”

“Oh, yes? What kind of things, pray tell?”

Arthur opened his mouth to list his many grievances, then caught sight of her mocking expression and shut it again without a word. This was his destiny. He was going to be surrounded by people who treated him like a petulant child and who didn’t respect him and who called him a clotpole and a plonker. He would probably go down in history as King Arthur the Ridiculed.

“That’s a good point though,” Morgana said, oblivious to his dire predictions for the future. “Merlin isn’t afraid of you or me, which is odd for someone who didn’t grow up in service.”

“It's a little bit… pleasant, though,” said Arthur.

“It's nice to be treated like a person instead of a title,” Morgana agreed.

They shared a tiny commiserating smile and Arthur reflected that Morgana, though obviously completely insufferable and patronizing and a _girl_ , was actually sort of nice to have around.

* * *

 

After that, Arthur decided that the only reasonable course of action was to keep a close eye on Merlin.

It was a scorching August, but patrols and hunts had to go on. Merlin seemed deeply unhappy about the amount of time he was forced to spend on horseback, and took his revenge when they were riding alone by constantly trying to entice Arthur to shirk his duties to go swimming or to eat wild apples in the shade or to race around the forest like lunatics.

That was why it was Merlin’s fault when they burst madly into a clearing and found themselves nearly colliding with a huge beast.

There was a moment of pure chaos.

Arthur was thrown from his horse and landed in the mud, jarred but not too badly hurt. From the choked cry Merlin gave, Arthur couldn’t tell whether he’d had similar luck. The horses reared and skittered, and the beast pounced on the Merlin’s courser, ripping it apart with uncanny ease.

Then it turned and noticed the two men on the ground. Arthur had a clear view of it, silhouetted against the sky. It had the head of a bird of prey and the hindquarters of a cat. No natural creature could achieve that kind of unholy union.

“Merlin, get up,” Arthur gasped out, trying to scramble to his feet. The beast was almost on them and Arthur hadn’t even managed to get a steady hand around his sword hilt yet. He dared not turn his back on the monster to see whether Merlin was indeed getting up.

This was it. Arthur had always hoped to face his death bravely when it came, but he hadn’t expected that to be before his twenty-first birthday.

The beast advanced closer and then, suddenly, it turned and swiped one huge claw at something behind it. There was scream from the unknown man who’d tried to stick his sword into the creature’s back.

Another swipe, and the man was thrown back bloody.

Arthur, thanking every god he knew for the time the man’s actions had bought him, drew his sword and attacked.

It was impossible, but fascinating. The beast did not move in any way he could predict; it bobbed and weaved like a bird, then crouched low as if to pounce. He couldn’t get his sword past those boulder-sized talons, no matter what approach he took. He could, however, keep its attention long enough for Merlin to get clear and then he’d see about escaping as well.

It was driving him back, and Arthur retreated, hoping for some cover in the woods. If he could lose it or distract it for just one minute, maybe he could find one of the crossbows. He ducked behind a tree to catch his breath and, when he peered back, he was astonished to find that the beast had actually unfurled huge wings.

It seemed ludicrous to think that anything so large could ever take flight, but it did. He watched it, not willing to let his guard down until it disappeared completely, and only then did he look around him.

At the other end of the clearing, Merlin was on his knees, crouched over the man, with both arms bloodied to the elbow as he applied pressure to the wounds on the man’s arms and chest.

As Arthur approached them, he realized that Merlin was talking, words spilling out frantic and broken.

“No, no, please don’t do this,” Merlin was saying to the man, who was wavering on unconsciousness. “Come on, Lancelot, you can’t die, fuck, come on, not after how far we’ve come, you can’t do this, don’t die, you can’t, you can’t.” And Arthur had never heard anyone’s voice sound like that before, like he was being _tortured,_ and Merlin was sobbing now, taking huge, ungraceful gulps of air as he pleaded, “Lancelot. Lancelot, just hang on. This isn’t right. This didn’t happen. You _can’t_. Hang on.”

He was wild-eyed when he looked up at Arthur, hovering helplessly over them. “Find my saddlebag,” Merlin ordered in a voice of such steely command that Arthur would have obeyed far more unreasonable demands. “I’ve got a med kit. Go, go, please!”

Arthur stumbled to where they’d been thrown from the horses. None of the bags or equipment had fallen with them. Then he remembered Merlin’s courser and was, in equal measure, revolted as he searched the dismembered carcass for the supplies and relieved that the bags had not been attached to his palfrey, which had run off in fright.

By the time Arthur found the right bag and retrieved the satchel of medical supplies within, Merlin had regained some small measure of calm. It seemed like the bleeding had slowed already and, judging from Merlin’s expression, eyes closed in relief, he no longer feared that the man would die.

Merlin took the bag from Arthur without looking at him.

“You’re going to be all right, Lancelot,” he said, soothing.

For the second time, Arthur watched the competent movements of Merlin's hands as he worked methodically on a man’s injuries. The idea that Merlin, of all people, could fix this level of damage with nothing more than a few poultices and bandages was as fantastical as the flying beast that had caused the whole mess. Yet Merlin looked very sure when he said, “Don’t worry, Lancelot. I’ve got you. This isn’t how your story ends.”

* * *

 

They laid the man out in Merlin’s bed.

Merlin tried to linger but Arthur hooked him by the neckerchief and dragged him out, closing the door softly behind them.

“I did all I could for him,” Merlin told Gaius, wringing his hands fretfully. “He will be all right, won’t he?”

“Merlin, did you do _everything_ you could?” asked Gaius meaningfully, but he was looking at Arthur, not at Merlin. Arthur understood that it was natural for people to defer to him, so he tried to answer as reassuringly as possible.

“Merlin did very well, Gaius,” he said. “Naturally, it came as quite a shock to him to encounter his childhood friend so suddenly and under such circumstances, but he recovered and did his best.”

“My childhood friend?” repeated Merlin, as if he were actually stunned that Arthur had managed to deduce that obvious fact. “What are you talking about?”

Arthur favoured him with his best unimpressed look. “I’m not an idiot, Merlin. Who else could that have been? How many knights do you know? And the look on your face when you saw that he’d been injured—” But Arthur broke off here, because he did not want to recall Merlin’s face twisted by guilt and fear. “Anyway, Lancelot is clearly the man you're always talking about.”

“Okay then, that makes sense,” said Merlin. His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “Lancelot is my friend, the knight, from back home. Okay.”

Arthur thought Merlin had been holding up rather well under the pressure and hoped he was not going to pieces now. He checked him over for signs of injury.

“Yes, Merlin did very well,” Gaius agreed dryly. “Based on my examination, it is my opinion that the patient will recover from his injuries within a fortnight.”

“Two weeks!” Arthur exclaimed. “Gaius, I saw the wounds. Surely it will be months before he is fully healed; that is, if he recovers the full use of his arm at all.”

Gauis and Merlin exchanged looks.

“I suspect that the injuries looked more severe than they are, Sire,” Gaius said.

“It makes a difference to have someone on the scene immediately instead of delaying medical attention,” said Merlin, so quickly he was practically talking over Gaius.

Arthur marvelled at the possibilities. “It makes that much of a difference?”

“Sometimes. It’s not… always enough.”

Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes, because he was getting used to Merlin’s strange ominous way of speaking. “Well then, that is the best outcome we could have asked for. Gaius, you’ll see to it that Merlin’s friend gets the best possible care? Merlin, we must see my father and—”

“No, I’m going to stay here,” Merlin interrupted.

“There’s nothing more you can do right now,” said Arthur, trying to be kind, though he was impatient with the need to be doing something more in the crisis. “But we do need to tell the king about the beast and organize a company to go after it.”

“I don’t care what the king has to say. I have to– Lancelot is—” Merlin stopped himself with a visible effort, and after a while, he continued in a more measured tone, “Lancelot is a good man. He’s important to a lot of people and to me. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

“He’ll be fine. There’s no need to act as though he’s dying.” Arthur eyed Merlin’s fists, which were clenching and unclenching, and wondered whether Merlin was actually contemplating taking a swing at him.

Instead, Merlin slammed his palms flat on Gaius’ table. “You don’t even know how much... _work_ I had to do to get him stable again. If we hadn’t been there, he would have died on the forest floor.” He shook his head and slumped down onto the bench. “I don’t understand how this happened,” he said, almost to himself. “How did he get so badly hurt? It doesn’t make any sense. Did I— was there something—”

“Merlin, when someone you love gets hurts, it’s natural to wonder if there was anything you could have done differently before or after.” Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulder. It was so much skinnier than he’d been expecting; with the way Merlin acted as if he never needed help from anyone, it was easy for Arthur to forget that he was just a kid a long way from home. He made his voice very gentle. “This isn’t your fault. It just happened. Your friend is a knight and he risked a great deal to save our lives, so we need to honour that by finding and killing this monster before it does any more harm, all right?”

“It’s called a gryphon,” said Merlin.

Arthur blinked. That was the last thing he’d been expecting.

“I came across it in one of Gaius’ old books of legends. It isn’t supposed to be real,” continued Merlin, with a disturbing lack of inflection to his voice. “So I think it’s fair to say it is a creature of magic and can probably only be defeated with magic.

“Well, that's ridiculous. We can’t use magic. There must be another way and we’re going to find it. Come on, Merlin, we’ll—”

Merlin was looking at him with eyes gone suddenly dark and depthless. “Arthur, can you… can you go away please?”

“Oh,” said Arthur. He swallowed painfully. Merlin always grumbled and whined and never obeyed a direct order if he could possibly avoid it, but he was also always with Arthur when Arthur wanted him. He’d never refused before, never said he was busy or couldn’t; he always said he didn’t want to, but usually by that time he was gleefully halfway through the task.

This was different though. Arthur knew in an instant that no amount of cajoling or threatening would make Merlin leave Lancelot’s side until he woke up. Of course Merlin wouldn’t leave his best friend. Merlin was loyal to a fault. Of course he’d want to stay with Lancelot instead of helping Arthur and it was right that he should, because Merlin wasn’t anything to Arthur. Merlin didn’t owe Arthur anything.

Arthur nodded once and left the room, feeling like something had been stolen from him before he knew he had it at all.

* * *

 

The hunting party went out at dawn. Arthur took the best knights he had: mostly older ones that had been trained by his father, and Leon and Owain, who were among the few that Arthur really thought of as his own.

They scoured the northern forest and found no sign of the gryphon at all. The carcass of Merlin’s horse had been left untouched, which was worrying because it meant that the beast did not kill for food. Since the thing could fly, there was no real trail to follow either. Arthur could do nothing but divide up his company and send them out in a spiraling search pattern.

It was late in the afternoon before they were rewarded with information. A man in one of the outlying villages reported that he’d seen the thing at three in the morning, hurtling through the sky as if demons were chasing it. Arthur made him tell the story all the way through twice, and could see on the faces of the men around him that the same thought had occurred to them: if it _was_ being chased, what manner of thing on this earth could frighten a gryphon?

It was after dark by the time they returned to the capital. Arthur didn’t bother removing his armour. He just handed off his horse to one of the grooms in the courtyard, and went straight to deliver the bad news to the king.

“You must ride out every day until you find the creature,” said Uther, drawing a grid from the city across the Darkling Woods and all the way to the mountains in the north. He tapped the top line of squares thoughtfully. “Even if it has gone beyond our borders for now, we must be prepared for its return. It’s important that the outlying villages see that their taxes purchase their protection from exactly this kind of threat.”

After a long and wearying strategy session with the king, Arthur went down the physician’s chambers. Merlin answered his knock but, instead of letting Arthur in, he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. There were dark shadows under his eyes; in the flickering torchlight of corridor, he looked like a haunted man.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” asked Arthur, aghast.

“Was busy,” Merlin said.

“Did Lancelot sicken during the night?”

“Not really. He woke up today, but you can’t speak to him yet.” Merlin stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He blinked a few times and then answered the question Arthur hadn't asked. “Because it's been a difficult day for him, that's why.”

“Okay,” said Arthur easily. Lancelot wasn’t the one he wanted to talk to. “Listen, do you think you can do some research into non-magical ways of dealing with the gryphon for me? We’re going out again in the morning.”

“I don’t think you’ll run into it tomorrow, but I’ll see what I can do,” said Merlin evasively. His callous unconcern worsened Arthur's already foul mood.

“You don’t have to if it’s such _trouble_ ,” said Arthur meanly. “Don’t put yourself out or anything.”

“Fine then, I won’t,” said Merlin. And he went inside and shut the door in the Arthur’s face.

* * *

 

The schedule of patrols and border checks that he and Uther had devised was so strenuous that it kept Arthur busy from dawn to dusk for the next four days. They heard troubling reports that the gryphon had been seen in the Mountains of Andor and spent long hours investigating the possibility of trying to roust it out. Arthur didn’t know if the creature had a nest or a den, or what kind of bait to use to lure it out, or whether it could reproduce, and if so, whether it would lay eggs or have kittens. It was like hunting an eagle with a butterfly net, and the whole process left him exhausted and not a little frightened at how helpless they were.

On the fifth day, Arthur’s horse lost a shoe and he was forced to return around lunchtime. He headed straight for Morgana’s room, smiling for the first time in days and hoping that their usual afternoon tête-à-tête was still in progress. No one was there.

There was, however, a great deal of noise in Gaius’ chambers when Arthur stopped just outside the doorway.

An unfamiliar voice said, “I can’t possibly tell you what a menace Merlin was as a boy.”

“No, nope, you definitely can’t,” said Merlin.

“Aww, but I bet you were so cute back then,” Gwen said. “Just a regular little moppet.” There was the rustle of clothing and then Merlin yelped and everyone else giggled.

“Can't we have one embarrassing childhood story, Lance? Please? For me?”

“Morgana! No using your feminine wiles on him. Gwen, I am not adorable; ow, stop that!” groused Merlin. His voice turned mock-serious. “Anyway, most of our adventures aren't fit for mixed company and there are ladies present.”

“Is that all?” chirped Gwen brightly. “Morgana, go stand out in the hall. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“But _you_ are as much a lady as anyone I have ever met, Guinevere,” said Lancelot softly.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Gwen in a breathy little voice.

“Now who’s using wiles unfairly!” Morgana complained, and then they were all laughing again.

After a moment's hesitation, Arthur pushed the door all the way open. Lancelot was propped up in a camp bed, with bandages wrapped around his torso and arms so that it looked almost like he was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. Morgana, Gwen, and Merlin were sprawled around him on benches and on the floor. There were empty dishes and a couple of flagons of wine on the table, clear remnants of a leisurely lunch. Arthur wondered if this was the first one or if it was the new normal. He cleared his throat, feeling oddly uncertain.

“Arthur!” Merlin jumped to his feet and scrambled over to him. “Hey, come here. I've been dying to make this introduction.” He tugged Arthur over to the bed. “Lancelot, I'd like you to meet Arthur Pendragon, the prince of Camelot. Arthur, this is Lancelot DuLac, knight errant, charmer of women, dashing adventurer, and all-round nicest guy ever.” Merlin's cheeks were flushed from the drink and one was redder than the other, probably where Gwen had been pinching it.

“Merlin, I don't _charm_ women,” said Lancelot, sounding mildly scandalized.

“And he's the winner of this year's prize for modesty!” Merlin teased.

“Merlin!” Lancelot's ears were turning pink at the tips and Merlin chuckled unrepentantly.

“It's good to meet you, Lancelot,” said Arthur, when he could get a word in edgewise. “I'm happy to see you so much recovered. We owe you a great debt of thanks.”

Lancelot shook Arthur's outstretched hand. “The honour is mine, Sire. I am only glad I happened to be in the right place at the right moment.”

“It was quite a lucky coincidence for all of us, though I'm sure you'd have preferred that your reunion with Merlin was less dramatic,” said Arthur. He felt as if he should be saying something more here, something princely to compare with Lancelot's air of gallantry, so he added, a little vaguely, “Welcome to Camelot! I hope you will stay here as long as you need to recover!”

Lancelot looked over at Merlin, who was waggling his eyebrows in a significant manner, and tilted his head inquiringly. Merlin beamed and nodded, and made little _go on, go on_ gestures with his hands, and Lancelot gave him a bemused smile. Arthur felt his lip curling as he watched this silent exchange, but he thought his face was neutral enough by the time they both turned back to him.

“Actually, I hope to make my home here in Camelot,” said Lancelot. “I've dreamed of coming here ever since I was a boy. It would give me great pleasure to stay.”

“I see,” Arthur began to say, but Morgana and Gwen were already talking over him, rapturous with delight at this apparently new information, and their easy conversation whirled on, leaving him tongue-tied.

* * *

 

The patrols had been going for over two weeks when they got word that the gryphon had swooped down on a village and killed two men. It was just north of the Darkling Woods, separated from the city of Camelot by only a few hours' ride. They made preparations for the next day's journey with renewed vigor.

It turned out to be a brutal day – one of the last really hot ones they were likely to have before summer turned to autumn – and Arthur, feeling that this was his chance to catch the wretched thing at last, pushed his company of six beyond their endurance as they scoured the woods for the beast. As dusk fell, they were making back for the city, saddle-sore and aggravated, when they came upon a shocking sight.

Merlin and Lancelot were sitting on the riverbank, sharing a canteen of water, with the carcass of the gryphon on the ground not ten feet away from them.

“ _What is this?_ ” asked Arthur, in a voice that sounded terrible even to his own ears.

The two men startled to their feet. They looked at each other and then at Arthur. Lancelot tried to hide his spear behind his back.

“I can explain,” said Merlin.

Arthur got off his horse and stalked over to the gryphon. He poked it with his sword. It was definitely dead, slain by a single, remarkably well-aimed blow to the chest.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, coming up behind him.

“No, I don't want to hear it. Where are your horses? We will be escorting you back to Camelot.”

Merlin and Lancelot followed the company and Arthur dropped towards the back to listen to their conversation, which consisted of Lancelot worrying that Arthur was angry and Merlin reassuring him that they'd done nothing wrong.

That was true enough. They'd done nothing except to accomplish in one afternoon what Arthur and his men had failed to do in weeks and then have a delightful little woodland picnic while Arthur ran himself ragged trying to protect his kingdom. Merlin probably had done the research that Arthur had asked of him and, instead of bringing it to Arthur, had waited until Lancelot was healed and taken him out instead. They'd probably laughed about it; how they'd always planned to have adventures like this when they were lads together; how they were back together after so many years; what a good team they'd make in the future.

“We were just out for a ride,” said Merlin, when the three of them were alone in the stables after Arthur had dismissed the knights. “We just happened to come upon the gryphon and it was kill or be killed.”

“Sire, we only wished to be of assistance to you,” said Lancelot. He unstrapped his spear from the horse, and Arthur saw Merlin look at it and realize how clearly it contradicted the assertion that it was all a happy accident. Who took a spear on a recreational jaunt through the woods? Just how stupid did they think he was?

“Arthur, don't look like that,” said Merlin, a little desperately. “It isn't what you think.”

“I don't think anything about you at all,” said Arthur. It was a lie, but from now on he was going to do his damnedest to make it true.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Morgana was standing in the middle of the marketplace under the bright midday sun.  
  
Guards were stopping civilians, inspecting goods, ripping the lids off barrels, patting down peasants roughly, searching for weapons.  
  
The people of Camelot looked helpless, afraid, indignant, righteous.  
  
Morgana watched a merchant yell at a guard for dumping his bag of grain and receive a gauntlet across the face.  
  
What was happening?  
  
She strode indignantly up to a guard who was harassing an older woman. “Leave her alone at once!” she commanded, anger sparking in her veins.  
  
The guard ignored her, or perhaps did not hear her at all, and instead shackled the woman and began hustling her toward the castle.  
  
“Stop this,” Morgana shouted after their retreating backs. “I am Morgana Pendragon and I order you to stop.”  
  
They walked on, unheeding.  
  
Morgana spun around, heart thudding in her chest.  
  
She realized the usual sounds of market life had gone silent. Shopkeepers were closing their doors, others were already shuttered.  
  
_Morgana!_  
  
She froze.  
_  
Morgana!_  
  
The voice was high, young, and desperate. A child’s voice, screaming in her head.  
  
_Morgana!_  
  
She whirled around, searching. She could see no child.  
  
_Morgana! Help me!_  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
_Morgana!_  
  
“Where are you!” she screamed. The voice was searing; it filled her with panic. “Where are you- who are you?”  
  
She scanned the market stalls before her, breathing fast. There was a child, somewhere, desperate for her help. And whoever it was… they were _speaking_ to her inside her head.  
  
Morgana closed her eyes and when they opened, she was staring at the familiar sight of her bed’s canopy.  
  
She was awake.

* * *

  
  
Two days after what Arthur was mentally calling The Great Gryphon Betrayal, he looked across the field to where Lancelot was being armoured for their demonstration match and magnanimously considered how much time he should allow his opponent so that he wasn't completely humiliated on the field of combat.  
  
Perhaps five minutes.  
  
He watched as Merlin took a vambrace from the rack and buckled it onto Lancelot's forearm. Their heads were bent very close together in conversation.  
  
Arthur hefted his sword. Okay, make that _two_ minutes.  
  
“You have nothing to worry about, Sire,” said Gwen from behind the guardrail.  
  
They'd known each other ever since Morgana had graduated from a nursemaid to a personal maidservant, seven years ago, and Gwen still addressed him as “Sire” and “Your Highness” even when they were alone. He was going to have to remember to tell Merlin that, unlike _some people_ , Gwen recognized the deference and respect that was owed to her prince— except that he wasn't speaking to Merlin anymore. Right.    
  
“Not that you are worried,” Gwen continued earnestly, “But if you were worried, you don't have to be. I've seen Merlin and Lancelot practising out in the woods and he is very good, but of course, nothing to you. You're our champion. I told Lancelot that being defeated by you was a rite of passage for a knight of Camelot.”  
  
“Your faith in me is touching, Guinevere,” said Arthur, in a lofty and courteous tone with not one ounce of seething anger in it at all. _Oh, practising alone in the woods, were they? I see how it is._  
  
“Lancelot says that he could never dream of besting you.”  
  
“Well, good.”  
  
“He said that just the honour of the challenge was enough for him.”  
  
“It should be.”  
  
“He is from the Isle of Mora, did you know?” said Gwen dreamily. “They all have dark hair and eyes in the South, and they're all a bit, um, solid, though I'm sure not everyone there can look quite like _Lancelot_.”  
  
Arthur gave her a suspicious look.  
  
“So you've noticed how he's— er—” He waved a hand that hopefully conveyed something like _strong and well-favoured and, good lord, the cheekbones on him._  
  
Gwen ducked her head in embarrassment, but the look she shot him through her lashes was bright and bold. She said, “Who _hasn't_ noticed?”  
  
“We're ready to start now,” called Merlin extremely loudly, startling them out of their conversation.  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes in an exaggerated show of indifference.  
  
“You might want to think about forgiving him,” murmured Gwen conspiratorially. “Morgana says it makes her positively ill to see him moping all over the castle.”  
  
“Yes, I've heard quite enough from Morgana on the subject.” She had harangued him again this morning and the words _not a prince, but a drama queen_ had featured rather prominently in her critique.  
  
“She makes such amusing faces when she's angry,” Arthur continued. “It might be worth it never to speak to Merlin again for those alone.”  
  
Gwen reached out like she was going to give him a playful shove, but she probably remembered that he was the prince at the last minute, because she stopped with one hand hovering uncertainly in the air.    
  
Arthur clasped it in his own.  
  
“Guinevere,” he said lowly. “How does Morgana fare? Do her nightmares still trouble her?”  
  
“A little. Merlin brings her a potion every night, but she doesn't always take it. She says it prevents the nightmares, but makes her feel like her waking moments are also a dream.”  
  
“I hesitate to ask, Guinevere, but— you will bring me word if she suffers?” He huffed out a laugh. “She never tells me anything.”  
  
“Of course, Sire. You know I'm always watching out for her.”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
“Whenever you're ready, Arthur,” Merlin interrupted again. “We are at your leisure.”  
  
He was looking at the two of them very intently – Gwen's hand in Arthur's, their quiet smiles – and his voice sounded pleasant enough, though his mouth was contorted into an odd sort of grimace.  
  
Gwen handed Arthur his shield, heaving it over the rail with an ease that reminded him anew that she was a blacksmith's daughter, not a soft-skinned courtier or simpering dairy maid. She gave him an encouraging nod before she went back to Morgana's side.  
  
On the other side of the field, Merlin patted Lancelot's arm and then trotted over to stand by the girls.  
  
Before Merlin had dropped into his life, Arthur had never felt inclined to get fully kitted out and fight every peasant lad newly arrived in Camelot. Now it was practically getting to be a habit.    
  
Arthur had taken great pains to ensure that word of this makeshift tournament wouldn't get out amongst his knights. He could do nothing about the wildfire rumours that Lancelot had single-handedly slain the beast that had evaded Arthur's company, but he could try to avoid another impolitic incident.  
  
Despite his best efforts, Leon and Owain were also standing at the edge of the field. Sir Balin, the third of their usual trio, was thankfully absent. Arthur could not have endured the man's sardonic comments and, through him, word would certainly have gotten back to Uther.  
  
He already felt guilty about doing something of which his father would certainly disapprove. If his father actually found out, then Arthur would have to stand up and explain why he couldn't resist; why their collective disappointment would have more weight than that of his liege; why he _wanted_ to prove himself to these six people more than he'd wanted anything else in his life before— well, the very thought of it made Arthur shudder.    
  
And who was to blame for all of this?  
  
Arthur tried to convey the force of his displeasure to Merlin with his eyes and Merlin stared back with such an impossibly wounded expression that it made Arthur want to laugh despite everything.     
  
He had been subjected to so many pitiful looks since The Immense Treachery With The Gryphon that he was pretty close to putting Merlin out of his misery.  
  
The reconciliation would have to wait, however, because it turned out that Lancelot fought extremely well.  
  
At several moments during their bout, Arthur declined to press his advantage and finish the match. Instead, he stepped back and allowed Lancelot to recover and try another flurry of attacks. He was curious about what Merlin saw in the man and it wasn't long before Arthur had to admit that Lancelot was better than the vast majority of noblemen who trialled for the Royal Guard.  
  
That made sense. If Lancelot had come from the Isle of Mora, as Gwen described, then he would have learned his craft in the southern lands and honed his skills across the treacherous wastes, ravaged by bandits and minor warlords, that lay between his home and Camelot.  
  
Arthur brought his shield up and Lancelot's sword hit it with a resounding clang that sent vibrations up his arm. There were murmurs from the group gathered behind the guardrail, but Arthur couldn't make out whether they were of approval or concern.  
  
But wait— hadn't Merlin said that Lancelot was from Ealdor? Hadn't he said they were friends from childhood?  
  
Arthur tried to peer at Lancelot's face under his visor — how old was he? What was his complexion?— and suffered for his momentary lapse of attention. He stumbled back clumsily to dodge a clever twist of Lancelot's blade.  
  
Even from the middle of the field, Arthur heard Leon's surprised hiss of breath on the sidelines.  
  
Arthur gritted his teeth and lunged forward. Suddenly, he just wanted this whole thing to be done.  
  
In a few quick moves, he disarmed Lancelot, knocked him down, and pressed the tip of his sword against his throat. He held it there for a long moment, breathing hard, until Lancelot nodded to acknowledge his defeat. Then, coming to his senses, Arthur grasped his hand and pulled him up.  
  
“Well-fought,” muttered Arthur, trying valiantly to regain his equilibrium. He cleared his throat. “I was expecting excellence, but that was impressive.” He picked up Lancelot's sword and handed it back to him.  
  
Lancelot took it, still looking mildly shell-shocked. “Thank you, Sire,” he said. He glanced over at their spectators and shook his head ruefully. “If you will permit me to say so, I have heard a lot about you over the past few weeks and I now grow certain that every word of it was true.”  
  
Arthur snorted. He thought that was probably intended as a compliment, but he could well imagine the sort of unflattering things that Morgana and Merlin might say about him in his absence.  
  
As the two of them made their way over to their friends, Owain hailed them with, “That was amazing! Wow, I've never seen anything like that!”  
  
He was smiling hugely. Actually, everyone was smiling.  
  
“It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” agreed Leon dryly.  
  
“Thanks, I think,” Arthur said.  
  
“No, really, wow, it brought tears of joy to my eyes,” he continued, deadpan. Everyone at court praised Leon, the stoic ideal of a knight, but Arthur suspected that was because no one else spent enough time with him to realize he was a hilarious arsehole.  
  
It did feel good, though, to have praise showered upon them both; Lancelot, for putting up such a good challenge, and Arthur, for living up to his champion's reputation.  
  
Morgana said that she knew it would be sight to see, and Gwen kept calling them _wonderful, oh, just wonderful_ until they were both blushing. Owain was looking at Arthur with something akin to hero worship and Leon offered some constructive criticism, which was his way of showing approval.  
  
Arthur remembered Sir Balin's trial – the way the man had glowered after his defeat and how it had been months before he would take an order from Arthur without protesting – and compared it to the way that Lancelot was now listening attentively to Leon's critique. He felt a tiny prickle of shame that Lancelot, who was infinitely more talented and good-natured, would not be joining their ranks purely because of the circumstances of his birth. It made him feel horribly disloyal to his father all over again and yet— it _wasn't_ fair, was it?  
  
“Lancelot, have you secured some employment in the city?” he asked, feeling abruptly ashamed of all his uncharitable thoughts towards this good man.      
  
“Sire, you know that it is my wish to serve you as a knight of Camelot,” said Lancelot quietly.  
  
And before Arthur could so much as give as regretful shake of the head, Merlin jumped in with: “Unfortunately, the first code of Camelot decrees that only noblemen can be knights, but,” with a smug grin at all of them, “you should stay, Lancelot, because Arthur is going to change that someday.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?” said Arthur, before he remembered that he was giving Merlin the silent treatment.  
  
Merlin faltered, but said determinedly, “You are, aren't you? You believe that all men, regardless of birth or wealth, should have the chance to prove their courage and serve the people of Camelot. And when you are king—”  
  
“When I am king, I will not change a law enacted decades ago just so that your friend can become a knight,” said Arthur. _You may have your special secret gryphon-fighting club, but you can't be in my knights club_ , whispered the part of his brain that was about eight years old.  
  
“But you do believe, don't you, Arthur? You do see how unfair it is?”  
  
Arthur thought perhaps he could concede that much – that he did believe in equality, that he did have ideas about how things could be different – but, in his peripheral vision, he saw Owain's face frozen in shock. Arthur forgot sometimes, when Merlin was insolent and smiling and unrepentant, that he was the prince and supposed to be above explaining himself to servants.    
  
And Merlin was still looking at him insistently, anticipation written in every line of his expression.  
  
“What I believe is no concern of yours,” snapped Arthur. “If you've forgotten your duty, I still remember mine: to obey the law of this kingdom without hesitation or question.”  
  
“If you really think that, you're a bigger fool than even I thought you were,” declared Merlin savagely.    
  
And oh, that _stung_.  
  
“Glad to know you think so highly of me, Merlin,” said Arthur coldly.  
  
As he strode away, face burning with something more like humiliation than anger, he faintly heard Morgana exclaim, “Have you lost your mind? What was that?”  
  
And Merlin's anguished nonsensical reply, “I don't know what I'm _doing_ anymore.” 

* * *

  
  
For the next two weeks, Arthur lived as if under a charmed star.  
  
His armour was always gleaming, his meals were composed of his very favourite foods, and even his bathwater was always warm. When he went to saddle his horse, the tack was arranged in just the way he liked. His red tunic reappeared in his wardrobe, mysteriously mended.  
  
There were fresh sprigs of lavender under his pillows so that his linens always smelled fragrant.  
  
He took a hunting party out and every man under his command was extraordinarily responsive and respectful, and _that_ was a mystery until Arthur cornered Owain and threatened him with a fortnight of early morning patrols.  
  
“He just asked nicely that everyone be on their best behaviour,” confessed Owain. “And— well, you know how Merlin can be. He has this way of asking for things as if he has a perfect right to expect them and you sort of forget to refuse.”  
  
Arthur stared at Owain for a long, incredulous moment. Then, too late and without heat, he said, “Stop taking orders from Merlin.”  
  
That night, the maidservant brought three warm apple tarts along with his usual dinner.  
  
“Make him stop,” moaned Arthur piteously to Morgana. “I can't take much more of this.”  
  
“You know, you didn't have to eat _all_ the tarts,” she said, poking him unkindly in the tummy.  
  
“I can't believe you're taking his side,” griped Arthur.  
  
The worst part was not that Merlin looked all the time as if his world was crashing down around his oversized ears. Between The Devious Double-Cross With The Gryphon and that insult at the demonstration match, Arthur would have been vindictively pleased to inflict a small amount of misery on Merlin. Just enough to make him sorry that he'd left Arthur out of things.  
  
No, the worst part was the way that Merlin smiled at him sometimes, small and hopeless, as if being hated by Arthur was exactly what he'd been expecting all along. 

* * *

  
  
Morgana was beginning to be able to tell the difference between reality and the dreams. At first, the visions that appeared to her at night had seemed so real and frightening. The wind had whipped at her hair, the twigs had crackled underfoot, and the people had seemed as if they were flesh and blood. But lately, she began to detect a hazy quality to them: blurry edges, echoing voices, a whole lot of unnecessary smoke and drama.  
  
Now, she walked the dream world with a suspicious eye. _Show me something_ , she told the shadowy forest, all bravado, _Here I am, so you better have something for me._  
  
To her surprise, the trees receded and, in their place, was Arthur, slumped over his horse. His arms dangled loosely on either side; his face slack in unconsciousness. Beside him, a hooded figure in a red cloak led the horse.    
  
And here it came: the slow drip of fear that the dreams always brought her.  
  
The cloaked figure was leading Arthur deeper into the forest, and Morgana suddenly realized that she was following them.  
  
Arthur’s face was gray and his breathing ragged. Was he dying? What had happened to him? His golden hair was matted to his forehead, darkened with sweat and dirt. Could Arthur ever look like this?  
  
They walked on and on, time and distance stretching endlessly in the way of dreams, until they came to the edge of the water. Morgana stopped there, but the dream figures did not stop. The red cloaked figure led Arthur and the horse into the water. It was rising past their feet, their knees, then Arthur’s hands trailed in the water, the red cloak grew heavy, the horse’s mane grew wet. Morgana cried out, but yet they walked, implacable, unheeding. She tried to run after them, but the dream held her still. The water rose as they went deeper. It covered Arthur’s mouth, his eyes, his hair.  
  
Morgana woke with tears in her eyes.  
  
This was no night terror. There was something real here and she needed to understand it.  
  
For years, the murky terror of her dreams had clouded her existence; devouring her sleep, her sanity, her control. At first, Morgana had welcomed Gaius’s sleeping draughts. She drank them down swiftly, sunk into her bed with relief, and would sleep well into the afternoon.  
  
But she always knew that the nightmares were waiting for her. They came from something inside; from a darkness that she alone knew.  
  
The visions were horrible, sure, but it was that _other_ thing she truly feared. That force she could not control, that had changed who she was, that made her different… this curse that no one could lift.  
  
When she looked in the mirror after her first week of sleep potions, she looked like the self she remembered.  
  
Yet the potion had side effects. Though she slept deep and dreamless, she awoke still tired, as if fighting to pry herself from unconsciousness; it was a sleep that seemed to swallow her whole. And even after she had fully woken, dressed and eaten, it stayed with her, this feeling of just being pulled from sleep, a haziness that sometimes muddled her thoughts and made the world seem just like the dreams she was escaping.  
  
Morgana had grown tired of the condescension of Uther, of his suffocating protection, of Gauis’ quiet pity and worry, of Arthur’s prying, of Gwen’s sympathy.  
  
She hated proving what they must think of her: that she was a weak woman to be pitied and petted. She would never be allowed to sit as an equal at court, never be given command of an army, never negotiate a treaty, never change an unjust law, never do anything at all. Her only currency was her health and beauty; the promise of the valuable alliance her marriage could forge and strong children she would bear. But instead, she was a sick, pretty thing. It was just another reason to view her as ridiculous. A pampered princess who needed expensive draughts to sleep.  
  
Then Merlin came to Camelot, with his melancholy moods and strange stories and hapless smiles. Clever Merlin who listened to her with respect. He admired her opinions, brought her books, and sought her out for conversation. He encouraged her to ask questions. It did not escape Morgana that he also valued Gwen, that he expected something from them both.  
  
Sometimes, Morgana would catch a glimpse of something more in Merlin as well. She could not quite decipher it. It was in the subtle twist of his mouth whenever Uther railed against the druids. It was in his lack of surprise whenever something odd happened in the castle. It was in his faraway gaze, his inexplicable knowledge, his casual confidence, his cagey answers to simple questions.  
  
She recognized herself in him; in the way he seemed to hide part of himself from the world. The difference was that Merlin was not afraid.    
  
Morgana stopped drinking the dreamless sleep elixirs. Her circumstances placed her in a gilded cage, but she would not spend her life imprisoned by a fear of herself.     

* * *

  
  
Morgana sent word that she had a headache and would not attend lunch, which left Arthur alone to bear Uther's exhortations on the subject of sorcery.  
  
He had heard this particular lecture many times before, but this was the first time that he was listening to it while actively keeping secrets about magic from his father.  
  
“We must not relax our guard, Arthur, for it is when we are at our most vulnerable that they will strike,” said Uther, jabbing his fork emphatically into a tomato.  
  
And Arthur remembered rushing away from his dinner, ready for a vicious battle, to find only the corpse of a small old woman.    
  
“Yes, Sire,” he agreed dutifully.  
  
“Although we seem to have been remarkably free from magical threats this summer,” Uther continued.  
  
It had been so dark in the tunnels of the reservoir; the air pungent with the tang of iron and silt; and Arthur had shaken Merlin and called him names when he wouldn't wake up; and later, he'd had to instruct someone to burn his tunic because no scrubbing could remove that amount of blood.  
  
“Yes, Sire.”  
  
“The scourge of sorcery looms over our land and our people,” said Uther, “But now we have clear evidence that they are getting weaker. The line of magic is dying out, thanks to our efforts.”  
  
“Weaker. Yes, Sire,” Arthur said, thinking of lightning in the sky, rain that came from nothing, and the blue eyes of an old man that seemed to look down and down right into Arthur's very heart.  
  
“You did well in killing the gryphon. I have every hope that you will carry on my legacy. Magic will never hold Camelot in its thrall while a Pendragon is on the throne.”  
  
“Yes, Sire,” repeated Arthur, feeling abruptly sick.    
  
It was galling to have to take credit for that, but when Merlin had looked at him wretchedly, Arthur had meant to ask, _how did you do this_ or _what do you know that I don't_ , but what came out instead was, “You promised that you would come to me for help. Does your word mean nothing to you?”  
  
Merlin said, “I was afraid that you wouldn't listen to me.”  
  
“I told you I would. You should have trusted me.”    
  
“I thought we could deal with it without—” Merlin hesitated. “Without the king's knowledge,” was what he finally came up with, though Arthur got the feeling it wasn't his first choice.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“First the Afanc and now this. It doesn't matter whether I've used research or strength or science or— or magic. Your father is going to have me put to death.”  
  
And Arthur had been livid with rage and doubly so when he realized that he couldn't deny it. So he held his tongue even now, even though most of the castle knew that Lancelot and Merlin had killed the gryphon.  
  
He wished Morgana was not laid up with a headache right now. Sometimes the way she glared and fumed whenever Uther talked about sorcery infuriated him, but today he could have used the reassurance of her moral certainty.  
  
“There was a time, Arthur, when Camelot was not the peaceful and prosperous land it is today,” Uther was saying. It was a familiar tale and Arthur listened with his chin propped up on one hand. “In those days, sorcerers walked free, and sowed mistrust and corruption everywhere. An honest man would sell his entire crop and find that he had been paid in fool's gold that melted away with the morning sun. Another man, perhaps, would labour for a week to thatch his roof and then find that his sorcerer neighbour fixed his own cottage with a mere wave of his hand. And then there were the dragons—”  
  
Uther hated the dragons most of all. One of his first acts as a young king had been to slay the last of those vicious creatures. As he launched into the story, Arthur realized that, while he had been worrying about everything that had happened in the last few months, he had almost forgotten that this man, his father and king, was strong enough to protect them all from whatever the sorcerers could throw at them. After all, he had done it before.  
  
“Do you understand, my son?” said the king.  
  
“Yes,” said the prince, and meant, “No, but I want to.”   

* * *

  
  
The afternoon sun washed Morgana's room in shades of gold and shadow, illuminated a platter of fruit and sweets, and gleamed off the perfect waves of hair on Merlin's treacherous head.  
  
_This is the sort of cozy scene that lulls one into a false sense of security_ , Arthur reflected, as he let the door slam shut behind him and threw himself into an armchair.  
  
“For the love of Camelot, are you still in a strop,” Morgana began to scold, but Merlin shushed her urgently and she subsided with a roll of her eyes.  
  
“Good afternoon, Ar— _Sire_ ,” said Merlin in a rush. “I hope your patrol was satisfactory. Would you like some food? Are you comfortable? What can I get you?” He gave Arthur a piece of cheese and a wine goblet, and flailed wildly with an apple tart as if trying to decide where to put it now that both Arthur's hands were full.    
  
“If you shove that in my mouth, I will have you drawn and quartered,” warned Arthur, eyeing the ballistic approach of the tart. “And anyway, stop trying to butter me up, alright? If I eat another of those, I'm going to be sick.”  
  
“Oh,” said Merlin, slumping back onto his settee and turning a forlorn gaze on the pastry which had failed him.  
  
Arthur nudged him with a foot. “Got a story for us today?”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” said Merlin, in an entirely different tone. “Are you staying for a story? Yes, okay, I've got a really good one about a goblin— no, a love potion— no, let's see—”  
  
“You're getting crumbs everywhere,” said Morgana in the indulgent voice Arthur had heard her use for puppies and, when Merlin sheepishly relinquished the tart, he was surprised she didn't add, _good boy_.  
  
“Are you feeling better, Morgana?” asked Arthur.  
  
“I'm quite recovered,” she said quickly. Too quickly, given the dark circles under her eyes and the fact that she was wrapped in a dressing gown in the middle of the afternoon. He would have to get the truth out of Gwen later.  
  
“I brought a new vase for your flowers!” exclaimed Gwen, entering the room with Lancelot close behind.  
  
There was a heap of white flowers on Morgana’s bedside table, the soggy ends dripping water onto the floor.  
  
“What happened there?” asked Arthur.  
  
“Merlin is so clumsy,” explained Morgana. “I’d been asleep all morning. Just another little headache. He came in with a tincture from Gaius and upset these beautiful flowers that an admirer sent this morning. I woke up to find him amidst the ruins.”  
  
“I saw a bug,” said Merlin solemnly.  
  
“Ah, yes. He saw a bug,” echoed Morgana. “I should have said that first.”  
  
“Explains everything, really,” agreed Gwen.  
  
“Quit making fun or I won’t tell you the really great story I have prepared for this afternoon.”    
  
Arthur waved his hands imperiously and was pleased with the quieting effect it produced. He waved again, just to be sure. “Of course you will. As your crown prince, I command you to tell us a really great story.”  
  
“Yes, Arthur. As you wish.”

* * *

  
  
Once upon a time, in a manor on a hill, lived a young lordling and his servant lad.  
  
One beautiful autumn day, they decided to go out hunting for large game. But all was not well in the forest. It was unusually quiet and eerie.  
  
Deep in the woods, they were set upon by a beast unlike any they had ever seen before. It had the body of a leopard and the head of a snake.  
  
(“Why is it that they always have the head of something and the body of something else?” complained Morgana in an undertone. “Just because the gryphon was two animals smushed together, doesn’t mean they all are. How about some imagination?”)  
  
Little did our heroes know that this was the famously dangerous Questing Beast.  
  
(“They’re on a quest, so it’s a Questing Beast,” said Lancelot knowledgeably. “If they were on an adventure, it would be an Adventuring Beast.”)  
  
Everyone is really impressed by the Questing Beast out there in the woods. The snake and leopard are fast and deadly animals, and that’s why it’s such a scary creature, okay? And it pounced on the young lord and bit him and now he’s going to die. I hope you’re happy.  
  
(“Sorry, Merlin,” said Lancelot. “Ugh, okay, sorry,” said Morgana. “Why is the lordling always the one to get bitten?” groused Arthur. “This is blatant discrimination against handsome aristocrats.”)  
  
Anyway, so the young lord gets bitten and he’s going to die. They take him back to the manor and his father is very sad. Everyone is very sad.  
  
The servant boy goes out to the secret cave behind the manor to consult the wise old sorcerer they have imprisoned there.  
  
(“This is a really lame device,” said Gwen. “How does this guy always have the answer?”)  
  
And the wise old sorcerer, who probably knows everything because he is WISE and OLD and MAGIC, geez, tells the servant boy that there is no cure. The venom of the Questing Beast is fatal.  
  
The young lordling is really going to die.  
  
(“No!”)  
  
Unless…  
  
(“There it is.”)  
  
Well, you see, in the Old Religion, the Questing Beast is an omen of a terrible fate to come. When it is seen in the land, what follows is chaos. Sometimes it is a famine that destroys the harvest and the people starve. Sometimes it is a plague and whole villages must be burned and the ground salted so that nothing can ever grow again. This time, the servant boy feared that if the young lord should die, then the happy prosperous fiefdom he ruled over would come to a bitter end.  
  
The servant boy loved his adopted home dearly, but even more dearly did he love his master. So he did the only thing the wise man said he could do: he packed his bags, he said his goodbyes, and he set out to give up his own life in trade for the young lord’s.  
  
He journeyed for many miles to the heartspring of the Old Religion. And there, on a lonely island on a misty sea, he confronted the last known High Priestess.  
  
He told her about the good, if dim-witted and arrogant and entirely too impulsive but still basically good, man who was dying. He begged her for a trade. A life for a life.  
  
The Priestess agreed. They made the covenant and the young lord was saved.  
  
But the Old Religion does not barter as if lives were mere coins to be exchanged. It is beholden to set a set of laws far greater than we can understand.  
  
Just as the trade was to be made, the Priestess betrayed him. She did not want his life, but the life of his mother and his uncle.  
  
The boy pleaded with her to spare them, to take his worthless life instead, but to no avail.  
  
So.  
  
(“So? What happened?”)  
  
Well. You have to understand. The covenant had been struck and a life was saved. A life was now owing to restore the balance.  
  
(“No, oh no, what did he do?”)  
  
He drew upon his own magic in a way he never had before. He called it from the earth and sky. And, maybe a little, he called it from rage and hatred and fear. And from love, I guess.  
  
And he killed her.  
  
And then he went home to the manor on the hill, where his master was recovering miraculously, and he went back to mucking out the stables. He had taken a life and saved one, but no one could ever know what he had done.  
  
Are you crying? Hey now, don’t cry. It was okay, you see? Because, the servant boy had been prepared to sacrifice himself to save his little kingdom and in return he got a wonderful gift: he got to come home.  

* * *

  
  
Arthur bounded down the main staircase of the castle. The crisp days of autumn were his favourite season.  
  
Instead of ornamenting the court like a fat jewel, he got to be useful. He ensured that the harvest was set aside in the winter storehouses, led hunting parties to stock up on game for the kitchens to preserve, oversaw the yearly maintenance of the city wall, and commissioned winter gear for all the guards under his command.  
  
All this was what he loved best— the clarity of honest work in service of his people.  
  
Outside, there was a man lingering in the courtyard. He dropped the hood of his cloak as Arthur approached, revealing waves of red-blonde hair and a face that was disfigured by burn scars on the right side.  
  
His hollow-eyed stare froze Arthur in his tracks for a moment, but, in the next, the man's expression cleared to a bland obsequiousness and it seemed as if he must have imagined it.  
  
“What's your business here?” demanded Arthur.  
  
“My name is Edwin Muirden and I have a remedy to cure all ills,” said the man, bowing so deeply that it seemed more parodic than respectful.  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“I beg an audience with the King.”  
  
“Our court has a physician. Your services are not required.”  
  
“I heard the Lady Morgana was gravely ill,” said Edwin silkily.  
  
“What?”  
  
Edwin looked taken aback. “I— I heard talk of it in the town. She is dying.”  
  
“Morgana isn't dying,” snapped Arthur. “I mean, she's been ill today, but someone would have told me if it were serious.” Then, to his own great chagrin, he had to stop and think about it. Had Morgana been more ill than usual lately? He had forgotten to ask Gwen whether her headaches really were getting worse.  
  
Edwin was looking at him with pitying expression.  
  
“We have no need of your cure or your services,” Arthur said firmly.    
  
“Sire, I beg of you,” pleaded Edwin. “I have come a long way. May I at least speak with your physician? We might be able to learn something from each other.”  
  
“Very well,” said Arthur. Though he found the man personally distasteful, he didn't see the harm in it.  
  
The physician's quarters were empty, except for Merlin, who was apparently having a staring contest with Gaius' huge black dog, which the dog seemed to be winning handily.  
  
“I've brought you a visitor,” said Arthur, with a cursory knock on the open door.  
  
Merlin's gaze flicked over to them and... what was that expression? Recognition, caution, calculation— before Arthur could decipher it, Merlin was gesturing to the seat opposite him at the table.  
  
“Edwin, hello,” he said. “Welcome to Camelot.”  
  
“For god's sake, do you know everyone?” exclaimed Arthur, who was beginning to feel as if he must be leading a sheltered and isolated sort of life.  
  
The corner of Merlin's mouth twitched upwards, and Arthur, who would go to his grave before admitting how well he knew that mouth, lost a moment in contemplation.  
  
“My parents and Edwin's parents were friends,” Merlin was explaining, when Arthur guiltily tuned back in. “At least, they worked in the same, er, profession. So they were colleagues, really.”  
  
“Colleagues,” repeated Edwin blankly.  
  
“You are Gregor and Jaden's son,” said Merlin, and not even a blind man could have missed the way Edwin's whole body went rigid with tension.  
  
“And what of it?” he demanded.  
  
Merlin's lips curled to reveal his teeth.“I sure you've come all this way because you heard that the Lady Morgana had been taken ill. You'll be pleased to know that we found the cause of the malady quickly and she is recovering well.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Oh yes, and I’m sure I can extend thanks to you on her behalf for those beautiful flowers.”  
  
“Perhaps,” said Edwin uneasily, “I should take my leave then. Since you have no need of me.”  
  
He was eyeing Merlin as if he wasn't sure which one of them was mad here. Arthur could wholeheartedly empathize with that feeling.  
  
“Do sit down, Edwin,” Merlin insisted. “We have so much to talk about.”  
  
Edwin sat, obedient and wide-eyed, and Arthur left feeling bewildered and appallingly resigned to it. 

* * *

  
  
That night, there was a fire in the lower corridor.  
  
Arthur did not hear of it until the next morning, when George brought him the news, along with three perfectly pressed sets of clothing and a plate piled high with harvest fruit.  
  
“No one knows how or when it started, but it was lucky that Lancelot came down to wake all of us up. We managed to form a bucket chain just in time. Gaius and Merlin were trapped in an alcove on the far side of the fire.”  
  
Though George was as polished as usual, he looked exhausted under his impeccably coiffed hair.  
  
“They stayed very calm though,” he continued. “They just covered their mouths and didn't panic, and came out unhurt. Thank the merciful gods for that. I don't know what we would do if we lost both of them.”  
  
Arthur, still bleary with sleep, sat on the edge of his bed and took all of this in with slack-jawed amazement.  
  
“Why didn't anyone call me?” he asked.  
  
“There was no need to trouble you, Sire,” said George, sounding a bit more cheerful now that he was getting to the part of the tale of which he could be proud. “Everyone kept their heads and we put the fire out in a jiffy.”  
  
“And no one knows what caused it? What did Merlin say?”  
  
“What does Merlin ever say?” retorted George with a laugh. That was certainly unusual. Since when did George treat him with anything less that perfect, distant respect? Perhaps a culture of insubordination was spreading amongst the castle's servants.  
  
“Send Merlin to me at once,” Arthur ordered.  
  
“Ah.” George unfurled a napkin and presented it to Arthur with a flourish. “Merlin and Lancelot have gone out to the west fields to pick herbs for Gaius.”  
  
“Before breakfast? Send Gaius then,” said Arthur irritably.  
  
“Gaius is resting, Sire. The events of last night were very taxing for him. But shall I wake him?”  
  
“No, of course not. Isn't there anyone _else_ who can tell me what happened? Or is Merlin the only one who has any damn idea what goes on in _my blasted castle_?”  
  
“Sire?” squeaked George. He had shrunk back a little from the tirade and Arthur realized he was shouting.  
  
“Never mind,” he said. “Lay out some riding clothes for me, will you? I'm going out after them.” 

* * *

  
  
This is what happens when the Crown Prince of Camelot rides out of the castle and vanishes:  
  
Morgana wakes, washes, dresses, and has breakfast with the King as is their custom. Uther is in fine spirits. It’s been a long summer, peaceful and temperate, and the harvest will be good. The King speaks of tithes and alliances, of trade positions strengthened and a windfall of taxes. Then he looks at Morgana and smiles and says, “you need not worry about these matters, my dear. I only wish to assure you that you’ll have no shortage of jewels and pretty frocks this season.” And Morgana smiles in return, because she must smile, because there is never a choice, and agrees that yes, the most important issue in her life is whether she will commission a light blue velvet dress or a dark blue velvet dress.  
  
Morgana goes shopping in the market below the castle and is escorted by a maidservant (Gwen), by a knight of the realm (Leon) and by two squires (no introductions are made). She inspects metalwork and orders cloth and buys a plum for a child. She takes pleasure in it. This too is custom.  
  
Leon says that Arthur didn’t appear at the morning parade of the guards. It’s been known to happen. He tells them how, the first time, he rode out with a search party immediately and he found Arthur covered in mud and Merlin up a tree and neither of them would explain a thing about it.  
  
In the afternoon, Morgana waits and waits, until Gwen brings word that Merlin and Lancelot also left the city before dawn. They marvel for a moment, two girls in a tower, about the great yawning freedom of it - to simply go if you wish to go.    
  
“Just boyish high spirits,” laughs Uther at dinner. A touch of temper and caprice are time-honored vices for a young man. His son is young and vigorous and growing more handsome by the day. “He takes after his father,” the courtiers say, when they are sure the King can hear them.  
  
The daylight fades and there’s a chill in the night air. Quietly, Leon sends eight knights out into the forest, two in each of the cardinal direction.  
  
On the second day, Morgana wakes, washes, dresses, and has breakfast with the King as is their custom. She startles at loud noises. She tries not to think about the visions.  
  
When Arthur does not appear, sheepish and travel-stained, with tales of beasts slain and foes vanquished, the King orders a full search of the castle, the market, the tavern, the forest.  
  
Morgana says, “the river. Search the river.”  
  
Gwen is sure that Merlin and Lancelot and Prince Arthur will keep each other safe. Nothing could have happened to all three of them. Morgana is looking at Leon so she sees his face when he lies. “They’ll be fine, Gwen,” he says. “I have no doubt.”  
  
Morgana watches from the window when one of the search contingents comes back with Arthur’s riderless horse. They huddle together in the courtyard. Then one of the knights breaks away and ascends slowly to the throne room. He has drawn the short straw.  
  
Guards and knights swarm through the lower town. They barge into houses, spill sacks of grain, manhandle the citizens. There are questions and recriminations.  
  
There is talk of a curfew.  
  
Another knight returns with news. He met Merlin and Lancelot on the road. They were not with Arthur. They did not know of his disappearance. They immediately turned around to join the search for him.    
  
Gaius says the word that no one else dares say.  
  
Morgana can’t help herself. It seems so bizarre, so unfair. “Sire, please, we have no proof,” she begs. “There is no reason to suspect sorcery.”    
  
The sun sinks low on the horizon. The town criers take to the streets with a proclamation that is full of fine words and threats and promises. But the people of Camelot have lived under Uther’s reign for twenty-six years and they hear the true message. The King is angry and offers money for blood.    
  
By midnight, there have been three arrests.  
  
Sometimes Morgana hates them with a depth and savagery that frightens her: Gaius and Uther and Arthur and Merlin and Lancelot and all of them. Those easy selfish men who bestride the  
world.  
  
On the third day, there is no breakfast and there is no shopping. The servants speak in hushed voices and the guards are absent from their usual posts.  
  
Morgana ties her hair and pulls on a rough brown cloak and, disguised as a peasant, goes to find Gwen in the lower town.  
  
In the market, from the shadow of an alley, she watches a guard harass an old woman and steps forward to intervene and opens her mouth and—  
  
—and hesitates, remembering—  
  
—and watches as the old woman is shackled and led back to the castle.    
  
_Morgana!_  
  
The voice from her dream calls out, as a commotion erupts on the other side of the market.  
_  
Morgana!_  
  
She covers her ears, desperate to escape the cry, to deny its reality. The vision swims before her eyes.  
_  
Morgana! Help me!_  
  
She runs, towards the voice or away from it, impossible to tell. The guards are shouting. A vegetable stall goes up in flames. All that separates her from the castle is the heavy iron portcullis and there, as if waiting for her, stands a boy. Perhaps eight years old, dark-haired, blue eyes wide with fear.  
  
She runs to him, this child she has met before in the dark of night amidst the terror of her nightmares.  
  
A man grasps her arm roughly. “Help us,” he pleads. The long vowels of his accent are foreign to her ears. “Please, help us. Save the lad.”  
  
The visions are inevitable; the people unmoving, the course of events fixed. But here there is a choice and it is Morgana’s to make.  
  
“Yes,” she says to the sorcerer. “I will help you.”  
  
He touches his thumb to her forehead, draws an unfamiliar sigil, As the shiver of magic flows over her, he begins to explain the spell. But Morgana already knows. She feels the magic on her skin and inside her and she knows: stay quiet, don’t touch anyone, walk quickly, don’t run, and no one will see you. _Notice-me-not._  
  
The man kneels. He presses a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “Be good, son,” he says, as the shouting of the guards draws nearer.  
  
He stands and nods to her, just once. “Thank you, Morgana Pendragon. Now go! Go!”  
  
And so they go, the princess and the druid boy, dodging through the crowds towards the castle. The man drops the iron portcullis gate behind them and the clangour draws the attention of their pursuers as, perhaps, it was intended to.  
  
The guards close in around him.  
  
The bells of Camelot are ringing. Inside Morgana’s head, the child screams and screams.  
  
This is what happens when the Crown Prince rides out of the castle and vanishes:  
  
An innocent man is sentenced to death.  
_  
_

* * *

  
  
Morgana watched as the child looked around her chambers, at the lush piles of bedding, the hand-carved settee, the great stone fireplace with its hearth neatly laid for the evening. He drifted through the room, pressing a hand to the soft velvet of a shawl she'd discarded over a chair.  
  
She was, absurdly, suddenly conscious of the difference between his shoes, muddy and three sizes too big, and her own dainty hand-embroidered slippers.  
  
"Would you like some water? Some bread and meat?" she asked. The child shook his head.  
  
"Are you cold?" she persisted, eager with the need to provide some manner of comfort to him. "I can call someone to light the fire..." but no, she couldn't call anyone, could she, not while harboring a fugitive child of the druids, not while committing treason against king and country.  
  
Besides the meager bit of leftover food and water in her chambers, most of the things she could think to offer him were functions of her position. She could not procure a real supper, or the warmth of a fire, or a bath, or even the protection of her friends. As the ward of the King, everything was brought to her, decided for her, directed to please her. She had nothing at all to give the child.  
  
The boy sat on the floor at the foot of Morgana's bed. He asked, "what will happen to my father?"  
  
Morgana made sure her chamber doors were closed and locked. She sat down beside him.  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"I am Mordred, son of Cerdan," came the small, defiant answer. "I am the fourth warlock of the druid order of Ashkanar.”  
  
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mordred, son of Cerdan,” said Morgana. “My name is Morgana, ward of Uther Pendragon, daughter of Vivienne and Sir Gorlois of Tintagel. I’m not a warlock, but,” and here it was, she was going to do it, “I believe I have a little magic too.”  
  
“You do? But you live in Camelot! In the castle!” said Mordred, surprised out of his reticience. “My father says that Uther the Red killed everyone with magic in Camelot.”  
  
“Yes, it’s true, magic is forbidden here. But I have these dreams. I’m sure it sounds very silly to you, but I believe I sometimes dream the future.”  
  
“Oh! You’re a seer!” cried Mordred. “My friend Kara is a seer too. She had a dream that my tooth would fall out, but it hasn’t yet, see?”  
  
He opened his mouth wide and poked his wiggly incisor. Morgana dutifully peered at it and agreed that yes, it did seem likely that Kara’s vision would come to pass.  
  
“Yes, I believe in her. My father says— oh, but—,” and here he remembered and, to Morgana’s horror, Mordred’s eyes began to well with tears. “Will you scry what will happen to my father?”  
  
“I can’t,” said Morgana, softly. “I’m so sorry, Mordred. I don’t know how to scry.”  
  
“But hasn’t anyone ever taught you?” insisted Mordred. “It’s easy if you have the gift.”  
  
“No, I— I never knew it was easy. I never knew it was a gift.” And then, because it seemed as if they were both in danger of descending entirely into tears, Morgana clapped her hands together briskly. “I can’t use magic, but I promise you, I’ll do everything in power to make sure nothing happens to your father.”  
  
Mordred look dubious and still a little glassy about the eyes. They sat in silence for while, listening to the sounds of the castle around them. Morgana wondered how much longer they’d be safe in her locked chambers. It was only a few hours until dinner and even if no one thought to look for the child in the castle — and why would they — he still needed to get out of there and back to his people.  
  
But there were so many other thoughts competing for her attention, so many questions for this strange boy who spoke of forbidden magic as if it were something in which even children were well-versed. How different her life might have been had she grown up among them, rather than in the castle with Gaius’ suppressants and Uther’s watchful eye.  
  
“Mordred, can I ask you something,” she started, hesitantly. “You called him ‘Uther the Red’ — is that what your people name him?”  
  
“Yes, that’s what everyone calls the King in my village, because of the great battle, don’t you know?”  
  
“No, I’m afraid I’m very ignorant about the history of magic. What battle?”  
  
“The battle of Camlann, where the waters ran red as blood,” said Mordred, all in one breath, like it was a common phrase. “I s’pose it means a lot of people died there. My father says he’ll tell me about it when I’m older,” he added, sulky. “But I’m the oldest now that I’ve ever been and he still won’t.”    
  
Mordred talked on and Morgana nodded along gamely, but a chill had fallen over her skin. _The battle of Camlann, where the waters ran red as blood._

* * *

  
  
Arthur woke up in the warm light of late afternoon to a pair of green eyes and a hand gently caressing his face.  
  
The eyes were the most beautiful eyes in the world. The hand clearly belonged to the love of his life.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” said the most adorable voice that Arthur had ever heard. “I didn't expect you to be as easy as that, sweetheart.”  
  
“Everything all right, Sophia?” said a man who was hovering just behind Arthur's beloved.  
  
_Sophia_ , thought Arthur dreamily. _The prettiest name ever bestowed upon a woman_.  
  
“Yes, Father.” Sophia laughed the way Arthur imagined dozens of tinkling fairy bells would sound. He nuzzled into her touch and felt perfectly, blissfully happy. “Just look at him. I've barely put any power into the enchantment at all.”  
  
Arthur's future father-in-law knelt and peered into his face, as Arthur did his best to look like a upstanding young gentleman, even though he was currently lying down.    
  
“He does seem unusually susceptible to the idea of falling in love,” Aulfric said. “How strange. I expected a great deal more resistance from someone with a father as stubborn as Uther Pendragon. ”  
  
Sophia leaned down and pressed a finger to the tip of Arthur's nose. “Aww, are you _lonely_ , my sweet prince? Has someone been making you unhappy?”  
  
Arthur nodded eagerly. Yes, he had been unhappy, but that was all in the past now.  
  
“Would you like me to take you away from all of it?”  
  
“I want to be with you forever,” he told her.  
  
She put her hands in his hair and wrenched his head up. Arthur felt the pain of it distantly, muffled by layers and layers of Sidhe magic.    
  
“You will be mine for the rest of your life, Prince Arthur,” she said, and kissed him.  
  
Arthur kissed her back with all the fervency of his spell-cast love. He kissed her because she wasn't confusing and she didn't make his chest ache whenever he thought about her and because her disapproval didn't hurt him. He let her dig her fingernails into the nape of his neck because she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. And when she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him, half-choking, to his feet, he went willingly, thinking, _I love you I love you loveyouloveyoulovelovelove._ _  
_  
“Now, Sophia dearest, what have I taught you about toying with your prey?” scolded her father in a mild tone.  
  
“That it isn't ladylike behaviour,” she said, singsong. “But Father, he so wants to please me. I bet he'd do anything.”  
  
Arthur saluted smartly and it made Sophia giggle.  
  
“Set him to some useful task, dearest. We can’t open the gates of Avalon until the night of the new moon, in a few days time. Don't let him out of your sight.”  
  
“Oh no, I won't.” Sophia stroked up Arthur's bicep and gave an appreciative little murmur at his shiver.  
  
Three days later, however, Arthur had started a campfire, gathered more wood, caught, cleaned, and roasted a rabbit, gone down to the stream to refill their canteens, rubbed Sophia's pretty feet, mentally composed a sonnet to said feet, recited the magnificent foot sonnet, declared his love no less than half a dozen times, offered to slay something for her, no, really, anything, just name a thing and consider it slain, picked a bouquet of wildflowers that was primarily composed of skunk cabbage, begged four times for a lock of her hair, was refused four times, tried to steal one when she wasn't looking, accidentally poked her in the eye during the sneaky stealing process, and, finally, embarked on the mighty quest to sit on the other side of the clearing and be very quiet for ten minutes at the urging of his beloved.  
  
“I can't wait 'til we kill him,” Sophia moaned, while Arthur pouted at her from a distance. “He doesn't do anything by halves, does he?”  
  
“Only a few hours now,” said Aulfric. The rabbit had been good and the prince of Camelot had been dropped neatly into his lap; he was feeling quite content at the moment.  
  
“Is it getting dark rather fast?— _No, you get back there this instant_.” This last was directed at Arthur, who had been edging crabwise towards Sophia when he thought she wasn't looking.  
  
“Perhaps there's a storm coming.” Aulfric looked up at the clear twilight sky, completely at odds with the way the air around them was growing humid and oppressive.  
  
“Can you hear that?” asked Sophia. “Someone's coming! Arthur, my love, you must defend me.”  
  
Arthur jumped to his feet, drawing his sword in a movement made clumsy with enthusiasm.  
  
“I'll defend you, my love,” he parroted back  
  
Three men on horseback crashed into the clearing bringing the sharp scent of ozone with them. Lancelot, armoured like a knight errant with a plain tabard instead of one with the Pendragon sigil, looked grim and worried as he dismounted and took a fighting stance.  
  
Beside him was Edwin, perched precariously on his horse with his arms tied behind him; his gaze was assessing and unconcerned.  
  
Merlin though— _Merlin_ , golden-eyed and furious, power crackling over his skin and filling the the small grove with hair-raising energy—  
  
Arthur let out a happy little sigh.  
  
“How dare you,” Merlin was saying fiercely, “You dare to come into my land and take what is under my protection?”  
  
Sophia put a possessive hand on the back of Arthur's neck. “You aren't doing a very job of taking care of your things,” she said sweetly.  
  
“Merlin, Lancelot, how good to see you, my friends,” Arthur said, sleep-slow. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing my fiancee, Sophia.” He stumbled forward, grasped Lancelot's left hand, and forced it into Sophia's. He waggled their fingers together in an ugly handshake and then dropped them, looking satisfied.  
  
“This is your prince?” Edwin hooted, his derisive laughter echoing through the trees. “You think this idiot child will bring an end to the genocide of our people?    
  
“Probably not,” chirped Sophia. “Since he'll be dead by nightfall.”  
  
“It isn't too late to change your mind, Merlin,” said Edwin. “What more proof do you need that he will never be worthy of your faith? We can still rule Camelot together, if only you'd  let go of your ridiculous sentimentality.”  
  
“Do shut up, Edwin,” said Merlin, without taking his eyes off Sophia and Arthur. His tone was calm, a disturbing counterpoint to his anger of moments ago.  
  
Aulfric shifted uneasily. “Perhaps we can work out a bargain. The Sidhe can be powerful allies.”    
  
“The Sidhe? Are you — good lord!” exclaimed Edwin. “Merlin, how could you refuse such friends? With the prince gone, Uther will be crippled by grief. We'll never have such a golden opportunity again.”  
  
“I’ll never work with you, Edwin. You forfeited any chance of that when you attacked Gaius,” Merlin said quietly.  
  
“That man is a traitor who stood idly by as my parents burned. He deserved nothing better than the same fate. But that doesn’t mean that you and I can’t be partners, Merlin. Instead of banishing me from Camelot, why don’t you just look at the possibilities. Just think about it,” begged Edwin, his voice rising as Sophia and Aulfric stared at him.     
  
“Now!” cried Merlin, and then Lancelot lunged into Arthur in a clang of armour, rolling them both down and away from Sophia.  
  
There was a complicated moment — a flash of lightning, twin screams, and a gasp of surprise, and when Arthur next looked up, there were two piles of dust steadily dwindling in the wind where Sophia and Aulfric had once stood.    
  
Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to tamp down a rising nausea. “What just happened?”  
  
Merlin knelt down beside him. “Are you hurt, Arthur?”  
  
“I don't think so. Merlin? Where are we?”  
  
“We're safe. You're safe. I'm sorry for this, but I have a lot to do right now. You need to sleep, okay?” He put a gentle hand on Arthur's back. “Swefe nu.”  
  
Arthur slept and dreamed of blue eyes. 

* * *

  
  
If Lancelot was honest with himself, and he did strive to be true and moral in all things, then he’d have to admit that Merlin scared the wits out of him on a daily basis.  
  
Oh, it wasn’t the magic. On the southern island of Mora where Lancelot had grown up, magic was as common as, say, prowess with the sword or being very good at swimming. Natural talent helped, of course, but ultimately it was a skill that needed be honed, and wasn’t to be feared any more than a length of steel or the sea itself. But everyone knew that Camelot was, well, a little backward in these things. Such a shame, but there were peace treaties to be honoured and trade to be done and, in these hard times, his mother had always said, it didn’t do to borrow trouble.  
  
No, Merlin was scary the way that a wounded animal was scary. In other circumstances, perhaps, he would have been a sweet cuddly thing or a respectable creature minding his own business. But there was an edge to him; a little desperate, unpredictable, even savage. He watched everyone and everything. He lashed out at odd moments and sometimes went very very quiet.  
  
And then there was his odd kind of love. He loved out of all proportion and felt things so deeply that it was wondrous and strange. If Arthur so much as frowned at him, Merlin would be dashed to the pits of despair. If Morgana made a joke, he’d laugh wildly and encouragingly. Lancelot had felt it all too intimately when he’d been bleeding out in the forest and this stranger had come to him and cried over him and pulled him back from the grave as if death itself could not defy Merlin’s attachment.  
  
Later, Lancelot had assured Merlin that his secret was safe, and Merlin had just laughed his uncanny near-hysterical laugh and said that he never doubted it for a second.  
  
The wounds hadn’t even scarred.  
  
And now.  
  
“They were going to trade Arthur’s life for Sophia’s immortality,” said Merlin, as he lifted Arthur on his horse and got on behind him. “They were banished from their realm for murder and sought to make it right with yet another death. I’m sorry that you had to see that.”  
  
Merlin killed with the reluctant resignation of a soldier. He’d been angry at the Sidhe, it was clear, but he hadn’t killed them because he was angry. Rather, Lancelot thought that Merlin had killed them simply because his calculus of the situation called for it.  
  
They continued on their journey to the border and Lancelot stood back to protect Arthur as Merlin banished Edwin from Camelot and bound his magic so that he could not harm anyone under Arthur’s protection. Lancelot hadn’t known such a thing was even possible, and it seemed Edwin hadn’t either.  
  
“How have you done this?” cried the man, as Merlin left him there and got back on his horse. “I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done and they’ll come for you! It’s a crime against all magickind. It’s not a spell, it’s a prison.” He grew more and more desperate. “At least tell me who you are!”  
  
Merlin’s face was tired and drawn. The strain of three desperate days of searching were finally catching up on him.  
  
“I am called Emrys. Tell everyone that Emrys protects King Arthur and— and— oh, you know what, I don’t care what you tell them,” he snapped. “They’ll come for me? Let them bloody come.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add: I'm delighted that you are all delighted at the update! Omg, finally - I feel it too! Would love some constructive feedback on the characterization - are you buying the way people react to Merlin? How's the time travel thing playing out - too close or too far from canon? Any fave bits? <3


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